


Wandering Strangers

by ghostburr



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
Genre: Canon Era, Other, it's...mostly canon, we are playing fast and loose with the timeline girls just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 188,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: Just when I thought I could not be stopped-- when my chance came to be king-- the ghosts of my life blew wilder than the wind
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 75





	1. Prologue

Alexander Hamilton heard his mother murmur incoherently, half conscious beside him. 

“Everything begins with death,” she mumbled. Eyes still closed, she half-smiled and moved a curl of hair away from her son’s eye. He shifted his weight, to ask her to elaborate what she meant, but was stopped by another wrenching churn of his stomach. That was his last memory of her-- sweating and incoherent.

He hadn’t the opportunity to ask her to explain; the doctor hoisted her body into the cart and told him to pay it no mind, the sweating sickness had burned her brain and made her insane and to get out of the way--and to please destroy everything in the room before the disease spread because he was so very busy during fever season.

****

“Have you lost your senses?” Uncle Timothy shouted through gritted teeth, dragging his wayward nephew through the streets, curious eyes following them. Aaron Burr chafed at being handled like a child and tried to pull his arm free from the iron grasp.

The uncle spat, “Remember who you are and act right. On judgement day you will have to answer God for your impertinence, could you face your parents and tell them what a disobedient boy you are?”

“You shall see them before me, Uncle,” Aaron remarked snidely as they reached the inside foyer of the dark New England mansion.

The ten-year-old finally broke free from the tight grip, and then, “If my parents had just left me a street orphan, I would be better off than I am now!” The uncle reached out and slapped him across the face and the boy saw stars. He reeled and heard several cousins snicker from the stair landing above them.


	2. Fortune

The dull February sun streamed into the front room of the probate court; Alexander stared at the faded tile pattern on the floor. He felt his older brother James shift in his seat to his left, felt the negative energy radiating off him. 

“Will the probate court protocol please be recorded as ‘Number 24’-- the case of the deceased Rachel Lavien.”

An overweight, self-important man Alexander vaguely recognized from around their small town on the island of St. Croix cleared his throat and squinted at the paper in front of him. He looked angrily around for a servant, snapping his fingers and demanding a pair of spectacles. 

A blond man at a smaller desk behind him pulled out a sheet of paper, and immediately began writing. The dry paper and cheap ink made a noise like a rat scratching at wood; Alexander clenched his jaw.

The overweight man cleared his throat without looking at the two boys, and adjusted the paper in front of him

“I, James Towers, by His Royal Majesty of Denmark and Norway, duly appointed administrator of estates in the Christiansted jurisdiction on the Island of St. Croix, make known that on the evening of the 19th of February Rachel Lavien did die, leaving behind two sons,” the administrator of estates indicated lazily to the two boys in front of him. “Presumably, that is you two.”

Alexander stood and tapped his brother on the shoulder to do the same. James ignored him.

“Ivar Hofman Sevel, appointed bailiff in the same jurisdiction, together with Laurence Bladwel, fellow administrator of estates, Isaac Hartman, and Johan Henric Dietrichs, appointed town and probate court recorder in the aforesaid jurisdiction,” the handful of men sitting behind James Towers each stood briefly, nodding, as they heard their own names called. 

Alexander eyed each of them: Ivar, tall and cruel. Laurence, broad shouldered and plain-looking. Isaac the scribe, and Johan, both nearly identical Danes with blond hair and blue eyes. 

“Is he listening at all?” James Towers interrupted himself, “You. Yes, you-- young man. Do you know what is going on here?”

Alexander felt his cheeks burn. His older brother sat motionless next to him. Ivar, the tall one, leaned in to whisper something to Towers’ ear. The fat man nodded.

“Alexander, is it?” Towers remarked, “You’re lucky we’re going to the trouble. If it were my wayward wife’s two bastard children I’d sell them to farmers as servants for a profit and be done with it.”

Assured he had at least one of the boys’ attention, he pressed on.

“The aforementioned officials make known that in the year 1768 on the 19th day of February in the evening at 10 o’clock sharp this probate court met in a house here in town belonging to Thomas Dipnal, where an hour earlier aforementioned tenant, Rachel Lavien, aged approximately thirty-five years, died.”

Behind Towers, one of the blond Danes, Johan, stepped forward. He addressed the two brothers.

“And which one of you is eldest?” Johan looked from James to Alexander, who didn’t answer. He rolled his eyes, “Do you understand me?”

Alexander stepped forward, “Yes, sir. Our eldest brother is in South Carolina. Peter.”

“Her will said nothing regarding him, though it is not legally binding,” Ivar called. Johan looked at him and nodded, then looked back at the brothers.

“The mute one-- he is older than you?”

“He’s not mute, just--”

Johan walked over to James, and snapped in his face, waking the elder Hamilton from his reverie, “You-- pay attention for God’s sake. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” James mumbled.

“And your brother here?”

Alexander stepped forward, thinking quickly, looking the elder men in the eye. “Nearly twelve.”

James turned to him, confused, “‘Nearly twelve’?”

“What do we need to do, sir?” Alexander asked, ignoring him. “We’ll take whatever she left us.”

Johan did not answer, and instead turned back and made his way to behind Towers, who coughed once and read further from his document.

“In the year 1768 on the 22nd of February the probate court again met in Thomas Dipnal’s house here in town, in order to take an inventory of the effects of Rachel Lavien. Subsequent distribution among the decedent’s surviving children, who are 3 sons, to be herewith stated.”

Alexander noticed the other Dane, Isaac, scribbling rapidly on a piece of parchment. The sound of the scratching quill cut the air between Towers’ sentences. 

At Alexander’s side, James hissed, “Why did you lie about your age? What are you doing?”

The younger teenager responded low, “If they think I am younger, perhaps they will have more pity on us.”

“That is absolutely absurd, they will see in mother’s documents that--”

“Excuse me,” Towers looked at the two boys over his glasses, “Are either of you taking this seriously? Or shall I dismiss you both right now?”

James slumped back into his seat, rubbing his eyes. Alexander stood still, looking at the floor. Then, “Well...good sirs. We were hoping that since I am still a child, the court could take mercy on us. Understanding that we have nowhere to go.”

Towers re-adjusted his glasses, “That is none of our concern. We are here today to discuss your mother’s will and effects.”

Ivar spoke up, indicated to Towers’ paper, “There is evidence, sir, that the youngest was born in 1755 and not 1757 as he has here stated.”

“Is that true? Have you lied to us?”

James shuffled in his seat, Alexander fidgeted with a loose thread on his shirt, “I do not remember my birth, sirs.”

Towers dropped the paper, and pointed at the younger teenager, “Do not test me, boy.”

Alexander raised his gaze just enough to see Isaac scribble something quickly. Then Ivar cut in.

“If I may, Mr. Towers, it is said that the decedent had been separated from her...lover…James Hamilton, Sr, in April of 1756. You will see on the document there to your left the account of Mr. Brown, the innkeeper, who housed Mr. Hamilton senior for the first half of said year. You will notice the unpaid bill just there. In my mind it would be a certain impossibility for the decedent to have conceived of her younger bastard while he was away, unless she was visiting him every night.”

A few of the men chuckled lasciviously; Alexander felt sick to his stomach.

“Unless it was a different man,” Towers muttered, shuffling through papers. 

“If the child was born in January of 1757 then yes, it would have to be a different man.”

Ivar’s sycophantic voice filled the room once more, “There is  _ talk _ , of course. But no such evidence. Given the decedent’s history it is not difficult to believe.”

Towers grunted in assent, then, looked up, “Boy. Which is it, then?”

Alexander balled his fist inside his pocket, fingernails bruising his palm.

“ _ Now _ he’s silent,” the man called Lawrence said, shaking his head. 

“Shall we record a younger birthdate or not?”

“If I may, sir--the courts will bear more responsibility on a ward they younger they are… orphans under thirteen cost more.”

“Thought you were being clever, eh boy?” Towers addressed Alexander again, who chewed the inside of his cheek, tasting metal. The scribe made a long, loud scratch against the parchment.

“Mr. Sevel, please continue.”

“Certainly, Mr. Towers. To continue: Peter Lavien was born in the marriage of the decedent with John Michael Lavien who, later, is said for... valid reasons... to have obtained from the highest authorities a divorce from her. Perhaps why he is left out of her personal will.”

“What valid reasons?” Alexander asked. Towers and Ivar looked at him. An unfriendly smile spread across Ivar’s face.

“Never you mind. The divorce was granted to Lavien for valid reasons, according to what the probate court has been able to ascertain.”

“My mother wasn’t a prostitute, if that is what you are implying,” Alexander continued.  _ Scratch, scratch. _

James looked at his younger brother in silent embarrassment. To Alexander’s surprise, Towers laughed unpleasantly. Ivar repeated his unfriendly smile. 

“Of course not, dear boy. Your lip is bleeding.”

Alexander frowned, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“May I continue?” Towers cut in. Without waiting for an answer, he spoke, “Two other sons, James Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton, the one fifteen and the other thirteen, who are the same illegitimate children born after the decedent’s separation from the aforesaid Lavien. The above-mentioned Peter Lavien has resided and still resides in South Carolina and according to reports is about 20 years old. Is this correct, Mr. Sevel?”

Ivar nodded. He walked over to the scribe, peered at what he’d written, then nodded again, “All is accounted for. Thank you, Mr. Towers.”

“In order to seal up her effects for subsequent recording misters Dipnal and Larsen were present at this transaction as witnesses to the sealing up of a chamber containing her effects together with a trunk. Thereafter these effects were sealed an attic storage room and two storage rooms in the yard, after which there was nothing more to seal up--”

Ivar cut in again, “--except some pots and other small things which remained unsealed for use in preparing the body for burial.”

Towers looked at him above his spectacles, “Which are?”

“6 chairs, 2 tables, and 2 wash-bowls.”

“And the two slaves, the two men aged around forty-five. What of them?”

“One was sold to a merchant on Nevis, the other sent to,” Ivar checked his notes, “I believe one was sent to the eldest brother in South Carolina.”

Alexander opened and closed his mouth to speak, unable to articulate anything.

“The transaction was then closed, Mr. Seval?”

“Yes, Mr. Towers.”

“Closed? What do you mean closed?” Alexander found his voice.  _ Scratch, scratch.  _

“I mean  _ closed _ , boy. As in, your mother’s meager effects are in storage. They belong to the crown now, do you understand? Unless you can cover your mother’s debts.” Several of the men laughed. Towers glared at the teenager. Alexander tried to come up with a response; Towers looked around, “Are we done here, gentlemen?”

The men nodded and began to gather their things. With a soft click, Isaac dropped his quill in the inkwell. He spoke, looking at his writing:

“In witness thereof: James Towers, Johan Henric Dietrichs. As Witnesses: Thomas Dipnal, Friedrich Wilhelm Larsen. Present, Ivar Hofman Sevel, appointed bailiff, together with Laurence Bladwel, administrator of estates, and myself, Isaac Hartman, court recorder.”

The din of the court picked up as the officials began talking amongst themselves. Alexander pushed past several men, trying to get the attention of Towers. 

“Sir? Please, sir, just a word--”

The teenager was jostled, the officials blocked Towers from view in one second then were gone from the room in the next. Alexander’s shoulders dropped.

“Just shut up, Alex,” James muttered from behind him, standing. “It’s over. Don’t you get it?”

“I have to speak with him. I have to make Towers understand--Will and Gregory should stay with us--”

“--You think they’re going to give us the  _ servants _ ? We don’t even have a home anymore,” James snapped, coming out of his torpor. He stood up, “You’re bloody humiliating sometimes.”

He grabbed his ragged coat from the back of his chair and stormed out of the probate court, leaving Alexander with some nosy hangers-on, and Isaac. 

“Sir--,” Alexander seized the opportunity, saw Isaac try to ignore him, “Sir-- Isaac, Mr. Hartman--”

The blond Dane held up a hand, and shook his head, shoving things into a leather sack, “I cannot answer any questions. I am not a probate official, boy. Merely a scribe.”

Alexander grabbed his sleeve, “Please, tell me what happened? What am I to do? My mother’s will-- surely she--”

Isaac locked eyes with the teenager, “--Your mother’s will was declared invalid. It holds no legal standing here.”

“Surely the courts won’t just let two orphans suffer with  _ nothing _ .”

“They will most likely find your mother’s nearest living relatives and relay your situation to them.”

“But-- her things. She had some money saved for  _ us-- _ ”

Finally, the scribe stopped packing his things, and gave his full attention to Alexander. A softness descended over his features. He spoke, “The law is plain. There is nothing I can do.”

Alexander felt his throat tighten, “So we are to receive nothing? But she said-- my mother said--”

Isaac sat back down, eye-level with the teenager, “Your mother behaved wantonly while alive, conceiving you and your brother outside of wedlock--a crime, you understand. She was a criminal. She is ineligible for protection under the law. She forfeited a legal will when she fornicated--”

“--My mother was not a prostitute!” Alexander yelled. “How many times do I need to tell you all?”

The scribe closed his eyes, rubbing them, “I am sorry, but the courts do not see it that way. You and your brother are evidence of her shame. I am sorry.”

“We did not ask for this,” Alexander spat. The lump in his throat turned quickly to rage in his stomach as he watched Isaac’s expression turn from softness to pity. His thoughts jumbled. “Is that what you were writing? That we are bastards with no money to our name? What a noble job. And what of  _ your  _ mother? Does she know how evil you all are?”

Isaac stood, “This is out of my control. You asked, I answered. That is all.”

“This entire island is corrupt,” Alexander replied acidly. 

“Then it is His Highness you take issue with, not this wretched backwater,” The kindness dropped from Isaac’s voice as he made his way to his coat hanging on a hook by the door. The teenager followed him.

“And what does His Highness expect my brother and I to do, then?” The lump had returned; the reality of the situation hitting Alexander in waves. “What do orphans do? Where do they go?”

The scribe put his coat on, then paused, sighing. “If it were me, I would find some sort of employment, and quickly.”

At this, the teenager laughed incredulously, “As what? Perhaps my brother and I can work for you, then?”

Isaac made his way quickly out the door. Looking up, he held out a hand to feel raindrops. Alexander watched him for a moment. 

“I can’t tell you what to do, but for God’s sake do  _ something _ . Now, do you have any more blasted questions, or am I allowed to go home before the storm starts?”

“Please, sir,” Alexander replied quietly, “Just tell me where to go.”

Isaac softened again, looking at the teenager, “In time of stress I find comfort in our Lord. I suppose that is where I would go. You know the good Reverend at the chapel in town. I suspect he will have some solace for you.”

Without waiting for Alexander’s approval, the scribe tipped his hat and made his way down the dirt road into the town center.

****

Reverend Knox was a large man with a booming voice and an intimidating presence behind the pulpit, Alexander thought to himself, sitting in the back pew. He’d tried to find out as much as he could about the island’s minister, who’d originally studied in New Jersey and found himself in the Caribbean to save the hopeless souls there. He watched the older man captivate his congregation and wondered how he’d ever get his attention. 

Alexander sat through the service, unmoved and unable to relate to the sermon, his mind elsewhere. 

A few days ago, he’d asked James about the Reverend, too see what his elder brother might know. James gave him a hopeless look-- “You think God’s going to save you? God caused this” --and it was no use. He’d wandered through the city square, listening in on conversations, trying to pick up pieces of information about Knox, and was shooed away. The only option left, as Alexander saw it, was to pluck up the courage to talk to the man himself, and pray he was decent about it. 

Alexander let the congregation filter around him when the service ended and they headed out the back of the church, parting to his left and right like water, as he made his way in the opposite direction towards the Reverend. He thought about what he would say. Ask for help outright? Perhaps Reverend Knox knew of him already. His question was answered as he caught Knox’s eye, and the older man smiled warmly. 

“Little Hamilton!” He said loudly, to Alexander’s despair, and several churchgoers turned to stare. Knox held out a hand for the teenager to shake. 

“Reverend Knox,” Alexander responded, blushing. 

“I am so happy you decided to come listen to my sermon today,” the older man put his arm around the teenager. “I was hoping I would see you here.”

“I apologize if you are busy, Reverend,” Alexander muttered. He lowered his voice, avoiding the gaze of nosy congregants. 

“Nonsense. I am never too busy for a person in need.”

“I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Reverend,” the teenager asked as the last of the people shuffled out of the church. Alexander looked around and put a hand on the back of a pew. 

Reverend kept the smile on his face, though a softness filled his eyes, “Of course, Little Hamilton. Though I suspect I know what troubles you. The probate officials at the court gossip more than little girls.”

He sat down on a pew and beckoned for the teenager to follow suit. The sunlight streamed in through the windows up and down the sides of the walls, illuminating Knox’s hair like a halo. Alexander took a deep breath and sat down.

“I expected to see your brother, as well as you. Perhaps  _ he _ is too busy for  _ us _ ?” There was a twinkle in Knox’s eye. At this, Alexander smiled. 

“He is trying to find work. I suppose he will come when he is ready.”

“Ahh, yes, financial stability is at times more important than religious stability,” Knox smiled, “I know folks like him well.”

Alexander nodded. The older man continued, “How are you faring, Little Hamilton?”

Alexander let the new nickname bounce around his mind. It felt warm, familiar. He breathed in deeply, settling himself.

“We are staying with the Stevenses for the moment. I am afraid I do not know what to do, Reverend. Since my mother died.”

The older man nodded solemnly, “No one should expect you to know how to conduct yourself in such a situation.”

“I went to the probate court last week. They told us that we aren’t to inherit anything from our mother-- everything she owned was to be confiscated by the crown for her debts. And my father’s.” Alexander’s shoulders fell. He stared at the table, “James and I are to go to her house in a few days to collect any effects we want, and then--”

The teenager stopped, feeling himself grow emotional. He swallowed. The reverend looked at him with sympathy.

“My suggestion would be to collect as many books as you can. Nothing is more important than education. Once you are educated, you will have opportunity.”

Alexander looked up, “My mother said the same. She tried her best, but... “

Knox nodded, “I know she did. But you must pick up where she left off.”

“Mr. Stevens tries his best, but he has another son to care for, and I think he finds my brother and I to be burdensome...and I don’t want to ask him to tutor me like she did.”

The reverend stood, brushed his robes. He looked around him, and put a hand on his hip, “Follow me.”

Alexander did as he was asked, and followed the older man up the aisle, behind the pulpit, and into a small antechamber attached to the church. Once inside, Knox opened the curtains, illuminating a moderately well-stocked library. Alexander’s eyes widened. 

“I do not know how much of this will interest you,” Knox continued, raising a hand and indicating towards his bookshelves, “But you are free to have full reign of my meager library, to supplement your studies, if you wish.”

Alexander’s stomach leapt at the thought, “Really?”

“It isn’t much, but a mind cannot be wasted simply because the bearer does not have money. It will not do to snuff out a light as bright as yours. If it was your mother’s wish that you be educated, then we shall endeavor to honor her in any way possible.”

The teenager walked over to the shelves, and touched the books lightly, “And I may come here whenever I want?”

Knox shook his head, yes, “Think of this as your own personal library. How does that suit you?”

Alexander turned to look at the reverend, “I am honored, sir.” He added, quietly, “I feel as though I don’t deserve this.”

“And why is that?”

Alexander shrugged, looking back at the books. He turned his head to read the titles. Greek, Latin, Hebrew, French, Danish-- books about astronomy, history, mathematics, law. Books written by hand, books pressed and printed. Some bound in dingy leather, some with gilded spines. He ran a hand across them. 

“Some of these are worth more than I am,” he responded, barely above a whisper. 

He felt the reverend’s presence directly behind him, “Each brain is equal, you know. Each man should have the opportunities an education affords him.”

The teenager thought for a moment. Then, “Do you have any blank books, to take notes in?”

Knox nodded, and pulled one from the far end of the shelf. He handed it to Alexander, who took it in both hands. 

He turned it over once, and felt the weight. The cover was brown leather, the pages thick and blank. He flipped through it, imagining the possibilities. 

“If you fill that, let me know, and I will procure another. I am good friends with the book binder in town. He will make exceptions for a Good Reverend,” Knox winked at Alexander, smiling. 

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied. 

“Absolutely,” Reverend Knox made his way back to the table, “I do have one condition, however.”

The teenager turned to look at him, sticking the blank journal under his arm, “Anything.”

“You will promise me that you will come to church every Sunday, so that I may hear of your progress,” Knox said. “I want to hear of your favorite and least favorite subjects. Everything.”

Alexander felt a weight lift, “Everything.”

The older man smiled, “Good. Now I have done my pastoral duty. One can be closer to go by appreciating the mind He gave us. You are honoring God this way.”

Alexander shook his head in agreement, “I had never heard it put that way. But I suppose it makes sense.”

Reverend Knox looked around him. 

“I am afraid I will have to cut this meeting short, however. I am travelling back to New Jersey in a few days and must prepare my trunks and papers.”

The weight returned to Alexander, “Oh, I see. Well, I hope you have a safe journey, then.”

“I will be back at the end of the month. Would you like to see me then, so we may check on your progress?”

Alexander nodded. He bowed his head politely to the older man, and turned to leave, heart beating excitedly. 

****

Aaron often thought about that day his uncle caught him sneaking off onto a ship. Did he know where he was even going? It didn’t matter. He stared at the mess of papers in front of him on the desk. Every time the memory presented himself, he clenched his teeth in embarrassment. That was a day for the record, he decided after several months of ruminating on it. He asked his cousin and best friend, Matt, about such things. 

“If you can’t stop thinking about something, even after all this time has passed, it’s left an indelible mark on you,” his cousin said one day, confirming what Aaron thought to be true. Matt was several years older and seemed so worldly. He looked at the older boy for a moment, recounting experiences he’d had that Aaron hadn’t.

From that point onward, whenever Aaron was presented with a task he felt ill-prepared to accomplish, the embarrassment and failure of that day came dancing back into focus, making everything worse.

“You couldn’t just march into the administrator’s offices and expect them to take you seriously. You were eleven. I’m sure this time it will be better.”

Aaron twirled a quill in his fingers, “That’s not what I was thinking about, but thank you for bringing it up again.”

“It was almost three years ago now,” Matt continued, half-listening as he bent over a book at a small desk in their shared room. Wind rattled the windowpanes of the old mansion. “Come now, it’s  _ funny _ . Imagining you demanding favors from the College of New Jersey.”

Aaron stood up from his own desk, steadying himself and closing his eyes, lightheaded. Finally, Matt took notice.

“Ill again?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to eat.” Aaron inhaled and exhaled slowly. He waved his cousin away. “I can’t eat your mother’s cooking. I’m left to my own defenses now.”

“You can’t see Dr. Witherspoon like this, falling all over yourself, passing out. You’re going to get passed over again.”

“I’m sure Princeton has an infirmary.”

Matt looked incredulous, “Alright then. So, you plan on passing out during the admissions test? Sprawled on the floor until some sap carries you to the doctor? That will impress them.”

Another wave of dizziness washed over Aaron, and he closed his eyes again, “I can’t take a test on a full stomach. You know that. Food makes me groggy.”

“Sounds like one of Dr. Franklin’s quack remedies.”

“I assure you this is all my own idea.”

Matt walked over to his cousin, and put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, “Look, I apologize for reminding you of it. I am certain this time everything will go much smoother. You weren’t ready.”

Aaron gently shook him off, “I very much  _ was  _ ready. They chose to insult me.”

“Don’t take everything so personally,” the older teenager made his way to the shuddering window, and pulled it shut all the way. “Since it’s your second time applying, they will see how serious you are, and will be all the more impressed.”

“Will you come with me?”

Matt turned and looked at Aaron, “You know I can’t. You don’t want someone tagging along. It will make you look nervous.”

“I was thinking about the day I tried to run away. The ship. Where was it going?”

Matt made a face, “Why on earth would you be thinking about that at a time like this?”

“I thought the sailors said the West Indies. For sugar cane. But perhaps I am misremembering,” Aaron continued. He sat back down, leaning an arm over the back of his chair. 

“The West Indies? Sounds like a bit of wishful thinking. They were probably going to Baltimore or someplace equally dismal.”

The two were quiet for a moment then Matt continued, “I have work to do. Will you be alright by yourself?”

Aaron looked at him and nodded, then looked back down at his desk. He heard Matt shuffle around, gathering his things, muttering about Uncle Timothy. Barely listening, the teenager stared at the black and white papers on his desk, disorganized and dull as the door shut. He leaned back in his chair, still ruminating.

He closed his eyes and his sharpest memory came flooding back to him.

Aaron saw himself sitting with his back to the wall, tears of fury and indignation brimming in his eyes. His arm still stung from where his uncle had grabbed it tightly, wrestling him away from the deck of the ship. He could still, faintly, smell the sea air burning his nostrils. The sting lingered in his head and on his face, reminding him that there  _ was  _ a different life. Even at ten years old, Aaron knew that there was more than dour religiosity, constraining him to a life of piety.

There was the ocean. And sailing. And perhaps even pirates. His thoughts swam through his head excitedly, helping take his mind from the migraine.

Those were the ideas that lured him towards the rising sun over the Atlantic Ocean, and the ships filled with rugged looking men who promised him a spot on their ship if he’d do all the  _ dirty work. _ That’s what they’d called it, Aaron reminisced. One of them laughed as though it were a funny term.

The color flooded Aaron’s face despite the draft from outside; he’d only then realized that they were laughing at his innocence. The ever-present slither of shame recoiled inside of him as he burned.

“Escape? Why are you escaping?” He saw the eldest sailor eye him gruffly, the brown stubble on his face making him appear even dirtier than he actually was.

Aaron stumbled over his words, “I…I  _ hate  _ my uncle.”

The gruff sailor watched him for a moment more, looked him up and down.

“Why’s that?” He threw down a rope and put his hands on his hips. “You’re the Burr boy, right?”

Aaron nodded. A sudden burst of confidence caused his chest to swell; he raised his face and looked the gruff sailor in the face, determined to appear brave.

“You’ve got it better than most out here, boy—you’ve no reason to disdain your lot in life.” The sailor finished with a loud spit to his side. Aaron flinched.

“I want to see the world.” He tried again, boldly keeping his gaze. Several of the sailors chuckled again and the boy wondered what, exactly, was so funny.

“You’ll see enough of it, in time.” Another suspicious look from the sailor in the foreground turned into one of contempt. “You’ll probably see more of it than any of us.” A sailor directly behind him nodded and scoffed. Aaron heard snippets of phrases and words he only halfway understood: influential, entitled.

Aaron ignored this and pressed his case further. “Please let me aboard. I’ll be good. I won’t make a fuss.”

“Those pretty new boots won’t last long.”

“I’ll sell them.”

“Have you ever seen a day’s hard labor in your life, boy?” The sailor in front asked, grinning, revealing several missing teeth. The sailors in the back laughed harder. Aaron flushed and could not find a response. Silently, he stepped forward, hitching up his small case of belongings.

“Got your Bible in there, little minister?” One of the soldiers in the back, a blond man with a scar across his neck, called snidely.

Aaron opened his eyes from his reverie and rubbed his head. He had, in fact, packed his Bible.

He saw in his mind the sailors arguing amongst themselves, determining whether to take the tiny orphan.

“Come on, then,” one remarked, exhaling. Several of the sailors behind him let out sounds of disappointment and annoyance.

“He’ll be nothing but trouble!”

“This isn’t a goddamned nursery.”

“If the uncle finds out we’ve taken the favorite nephew— “

But Aaron didn’t hear them. Excitedly, he ran past the gruff sailor in front and the complaining men—shipmates, he corrected himself in his head—and onto the deck. He didn’t care about their words of derision. Even if he could hear them clearly, the salty wind in his face carried his cares away. He was free.

“Where are we going first?” he asked the gruff sailor excitedly, throwing his bags down. The remaining sailors continued their work, muttering among themselves. Aaron raised his wide eyes to the man before him, who he assumed was the captain. The captain spit again.

“Where do you think?” He asked, somewhat annoyed.

The little boy shrugged. If he were being honest with himself, he didn’t care where they went. As long as it wasn’t anywhere near his home.

“Some place warm?” Aaron offered hopefully.

“West Indies. To pick up a shipment of sugar.”

Images of tropical beaches and palm trees crossed the little boy’s mind and his heart beat excitedly. This was it—the answer to his prayers. And he  _ did  _ pray, every night and every morning. His uncle leading him and his numerous cousins, Aaron was told to give thanks for his blessings and refrain from asking for too much. If you’re meant to have it, it will be presented to you.

Those were his uncle’s stern, unpromising words—completely devoid of hope.

But Aaron prayed for deliverance, day and night, from the rigid rules that made him feel strange and unwelcome. The sun was too warm, the sky too blue, the ocean too alluring, to have been made by a god that did not want his people to enjoy any of it.

Aaron stood from his desk, stretching his legs as he walked around his small room, taking inventory of what was there. He made his way to the window, settled himself on the wide pane beneath it, situating a pillow for his back. He leaned against the cold glass; eyes misty.

“The West Indies!” He could hear his excitement. Subsequent words were lost on him as he grabbed his things and scrambled towards the mast. Climbing it, Aaron imagined he could see the beautiful chain of islands already. In his imagination, the small boy pictured running through the sand, the sunburn light and playful on his nose and cheeks, his troubles far behind him.

Unbeknownst to the excited new sailor, a small mutiny was forming below.

“He can’t stay. Who knows what that uncle of his will do,” the blond sailor with the scar complained to the captain. His friend standing beside him spoke up in agreement.

“He’ll come looking for him. We might as well send him back.”

“We should ask for a bounty. Perhaps the family will pay.”

Aaron could not hear them, his mind filled with the screams of tropical birds.

Subsequent shouts from beneath him brought the child back to earth. In the distance, the subdued clothes and wide-brimmed black hat of his uncle walked briskly towards the dock. Aaron saw it all unfold before him, the beginnings of a nightmare.

The sailors gathered around his uncle, talked to him animatedly. The uncle would have none of it. Aaron crouched down, afraid to be seen. Perhaps, if he was not seen, he could get away with leaving forever. His uncle’s voice rang out shrill, cruel, against the baritones of the sailors.

“Aaron!”

Even the gulls stopped screaming, the boy thought.

“Aaron!” This shout from his uncle was accompanied by a stomp of his foot, the click of his heeled boot making the little boy shudder.

Aaron could see his uncle, standing there. He heard laughter from an adjoining room, shaking him from his reverie for just a moment. Timothy Edwards—gaunt faced and grey-haired, overwhelmed by his ridiculous brood of children—so unlike the velvet softness of his mother. The more Aaron thought of her, the dimmer this image of his mother became.

“Get down here this instant,” the uncle did not have to scream this part; Aaron could tell by the deadly inflection of his voice that he would never leave without a fight. Even the sailors stopped their muted chatter and watched as the showdown unfolded. Eyes still shut, Aaron imagined the gleeful, self-righteous looks on his cousins’ faces as they sat staring at him, justified in their criticisms.

“I’m not going back,” the little boy whispered to himself.

“Aaron Burr!”

Still the little boy did not answer, knowing that here was the point of no return. To go back, to face his uncle and mollified cousins, meant absolute failure.

Unless—

Aaron shot straight up, a new scheme forming in his mind.

“Uncle!”

Perhaps his uncle was unprepared for the sly smile playing across his features of his nephew. He stepped back and removed his hat, blinking in the brilliant sun. Aaron stared him down.

“Uncle, I will come back under several conditions!”

The sailors resumed their snickering, nudging each other and pointing. The uncle whirled around and shot them a glare that shut them up immediately. The little boy, from above, waited.

“Uncle!”

“…Yes, Aaron?”

The little boy exhaled and thought for a moment.

“I will come back…if you promise to…” he faltered and tried to formulate a good argument, “…if you promise to…treat me like an adult!”

Another hoot from the sailors and a loud swear from their captain caused the little boy to blush profusely. The uncle raised a thin, bony finger towards the tiny figure on the mast. He squinted in the sun.

“You dare bargain with me, young man? Who are you?”

Aaron did not answer him, and instead ducked down quickly, scared of the outcome.

“You…you heard me, uncle!”

The uncle exhaled, defeated. He began to sweat, embarrassed, in front of the sailors. They whispered insults amongst themselves—the uncle could barely discern them and was rather thankful for that small blessing.

“Aaron.”

“…Yes?”

The uncle gritted his teeth and prayed for a means to get the boy down and himself out of the docks before suffering any more embarrassment.

“Is there anything else?”

Aaron thought to himself for a moment. In a small voice, he spoke up, each word gaining strength as they left his mouth.

“You…you can’t….” he faltered, swallowed once again, and remembered his gentle mother. “…You can’t beat me.”

Silence prevailed among the rowdy sailors, who had stopped their lewd remarks to listen to the drama play out before them. The uncle smiled a thin, mirthless grin and nodded in their direction as if to say,  _ Now I’ve got him. _

“You have a deal, Aaron. I promise.” The uncle finished, crossing his arms and waiting for the small head to emerge, trusting, from behind the wood. Aaron opened his eyes and produced a small sigh of relief that his terms had been agreed to. Exhaling once again, the small boy gathered his things and put them neatly back into his pack and descended the mast. Eager to further discuss the terms of their agreement with his uncle, Aaron proudly walked towards the group of men.

Aaron thought about his uncle, searching his face and wondering if it was at all like his mother’s.

“Are you ready to come home, then?” His uncle asked through gritted teeth. The nephew nodded triumphantly. Several of the sailors left their group for the ship. The one Aaron had spoken to directly, the gruff one, frowned at the uncle before heading towards the ship himself. The boy watched as he shook his dirty head sadly.

The uncle grabbed his nephew’s arm tightly, causing the child to gasp from pain—and surprise.

“I asked you a question, Aaron.”

“Yes! And you’re hurting me!” The nephew tried in vain to wrestle his arm from his uncle’s grip, who had begun to drag him towards their house. With a final yank, the uncle wordlessly told his captive to shut up.

In silence, Aaron saw his younger self follow behind his uncle, remembered the naive reassurances that he had a deal. He had been promised. He deluded himself into thinking he could disappear, far away from the bitter cold New England winters and the even colder family that surrounded him.

For a fleeting moment, Aaron imagined the paradise that almost was his. Less than an hour later, the uncle forgot all his promises and beat that paradise out of him.

_ See thy wretched, helpless state, and learn to know thyself. Learn to know thy best support. Despise thyself, and adore thy God. _

The unpleasant lump of emotion rose in his throat as he recounted the injustices.


	3. Novelty

Alexander stared at the turquoise waters as they splashed gently on the white sand at the private, unnamed beach, and the gulls screamed above him. He closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he began praying silently to himself--an old hymn he’d recited many times since his mother died—one she used to sing to him as he was drifting off to sleep. 

The other specter of his father loomed in the dark corners of his mind. He hadn’t seen the man since he was a child, and had no sentimentality for him, but still a tiny voice wished James Hamilton would find him again. 

Alexander opened his eyes. The melody still played in his head and a stronger breeze picked up. He’d tried to live for the future, not the past, but it was nearly impossible to escape when her memory occupied every square mile of the tiny miserable island.

Alexander saw his mother in the stares of his old neighbors who looked at him as if he were a stranger. And worse, a bastard with nowhere to go. 

They whispered horrible things about her --  _ she deserved it, living in sin, prostitute _ \-- none of it made any sense. They didn’t  _ know  _ Rachel. They didn’t hear how she sang to her sons, how she saved the best fruit for them, going without. They didn’t see her bandaging scraped knees, hunting for starfish, teaching arithmetic to Alexander while he pretended to be annoyed. They didn’t see her shutting the door while her husband screamed at her, threatening to leave.

“At least  _ someone _ kept their promise,” Alexander kicked a seashell into the water, sand flying into his face. He swore and rubbed his eyes.

“So  _ here _ is where you are hiding.”

When Alexander opened his eyes, Reverend Knox was standing before him, hands in his pockets, expectantly, wearing a wry smile. The teenager stepped back, surprised. 

“Reverend,” he replied. 

The reverend smiled, “I often take walks out here while thinking of a good sermon. The crashing waves and screaming birds are some sort of Biblical allegory, I am sure. Though I have yet to make the exact connection.”

He faced the ocean, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, “It is easy to believe in God looking at such a thing.”

Alexander sighed, “The Bible says all is created by God’s hand. So, yes. I agree.”

Reverend Knox looked at him for a moment, “You missed our meeting last week, Alexander.”

Alexander sighed, feeling guilty, “I am sorry, Reverend.”

“Bit early to be giving up, wouldn’t you say, Little Hamilton?” Knox asked softly. 

“I was praying a bit, just now,” the teenager responded. He raised a hand, “Taking in God’s glory, I suppose.”

“Do I detect some sarcasm?”

At this, Alexander lowered his eyes, “You will have to forgive me if at the moment I am not particularly satisfied with God’s plan, Reverend.”

Knox nodded, “No, I should expect not.”

“It had all happened so fast.” Alexander poured forth his thoughts in a stream of chatter, moving his hands in front of him, “She was preparing the store for the day. I was helping her organize the receipts, like I always did. She complained of a headache, but nothing more. The next day she couldn’t get out of bed. I wanted to help her, but then I felt sick myself and I couldn’t move. I did everything I could--”

He felt his throat tighten, and a hand on his back, “None of this is your fault, Alexander.”

At this, the teenager squeezed his eyes shut, feeling them fill with water. None of it made sense. 

“Why her? Why not myself? Why should she be taken, while I have to stay behind?”

Knox spoke low, and Alexander strained to hear him. As if on cue, the older man knelt so he was eye-level with the teenager.

“You mustn’t think like that, Little Hamilton. In fact, I would bet my own life that Rachel would rather you be alive and well than her. She sacrificed her own health for you and your brother.”

“I didn’t ask her to do such a thing! I don’t want her dead!”

“Of course not,” Knox stood, and put his arm around Alexander, “There are some mysteries in life that are unanswerable. Your question will have to wait until you yourself are reunited with God. Which, with his blessing, won’t be for many decades to come.”

Alexander rubbed his forehead, “It isn’t fair.”

“I certainly won’t argue with you on that account,” Knox replied. He thought for a moment, then, “My teacher, a dear friend of mine, died several years ago. Soon after his wife followed. They left behind a daughter and a son, who is about your age.”

The teenager sniffed, drew lines in the sand with the tip of his shoe, “What became of them?”

“Well, they are thriving. I visited them in New Jersey, actually. They have adjusted well. They are living a life that is not what you would call ‘normal’, but they are nevertheless happy and healthy, and excited about the future. You will see. You are young and resilient, like they are.” Knox said softly. 

“They are not trapped on an island,” Alexander reasoned. He felt the reverend put a hand on his back again. 

“No, that is true. But you are not forgotten here. I have heard such good reports from the townspeople -- how smart you are, how hardworking you were in your mother’s shop, helping with some of the other merchants in town. There is a place for you somewhere else if you just look for it.”

“I don’t have the strength.”

The Reverend smiled, “None of us do, really, but we push on. Just know that I am always available, if you need to talk.”

The older man stood silently by Alexander as the two watched the waves. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, and when the Reverend invited him and his brother to a dinner the following week. Alexander accepted immediately-- knew James would be in agreement. He kept this in the back of his mind as something to look forward to.

The thought of his older brother made Alexander sad: James’ fate would be provider, whether he liked it or not. Alexander would be allowed to take his time. James would not be so lucky. 

James was no help, and Alexander didn’t know what he expected of his elder brother, who’d always been rather reclusive. Their mother’s death made him even more sullen and quiet, lost in his own collection of memories. He picked up odd jobs here and there, spent his earnings trying to make friends at the local tavern, came home depressed… then started the entire thing all over again next week.

Finally, one humid March afternoon while the clouds hung low like a thick blanket, James walked into their mother’s old kitchen where Alexander had been sorting through his meager possessions and announced that he’d taken up carpentry.

“That’s wonderful, James,” Alexander offered. His older brother smiled at him.

“I’ve spoken to our mother’s cousin, Peter Lytton, as well. He has decided to take up our cause. He’s the one who suggested carpentry. He’s got a neighbor who needs help.”

Alexander kept his smile fixed in place, “Peter?”

“Yes. We ran into each other at the tavern,” James turned his back and began rummaging through a trunk. Their voices echoed in the empty room; scavengers had descended on the tiny house only days after the crown took possession of it.

“Wasn’t he...well…”

“Well what?”

“I remember mother said once he was a bit off. Didn’t he marry some widow and steal her fortune? Why don’t we just see what Mr. Stevens has for us?” Alexander shrugged, choosing his words carefully so as not to discourage his brother. James turned suddenly.

“Must you be so negative? We will have  _ money _ . I will have an occupation, and you perhaps an education.”

“I am not being negative, I am just cautious,” Alexander gathered several books and his other pair of breeches, “We hardly know him”

“And what is your grand plan, then?” James replied, putting his hands on his hips. “Just live like pathetic little wards with Mr. Stevens with no income?”

The younger teenager bit his lip, “I don’t know. Maybe we can-- I thought perhaps with more study, we could eventually leave--”

“--Leave? You think you can leave without funds?”

“I think perhaps there are more ways of making something of ourselves than living off of an unstable man, yes.”

James laughed, “Look at you, little scholar. How are you going to study if you have no roof over your head? No food? Books aren’t going to feed you.”

Alexander dropped the subject. He knew better than to argue with James, who was sometimes convinced that the entire world was his enemy. He watched his brother out of the corner of his eye flip through an old receipt book. The two continued on their quest in silence.

“When will Peter see us?” Alexander tried after he couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“Whenever we are ready. I told him we would come by this evening for dinner. If that suits you.”

Alexander shot his brother a look, “Of course it suits me. What do I care?”

“What do you care indeed,” James muttered, slamming another book shut and putting it back on the shelf. “The court took everything. And the vagrants took the rest. There is nothing here of value.”

Alexander looked at the small paper in his lap, a tiny drawing of different types of seashells, with his mother’s signature on the bottom. He folded it and put it in his pocket. 

“They sent everything to our brother Peter in South Carolina last week. Said as the only legitimate son he inherits it all. Absolute shit.” James spat. He turned and looked at his younger brother. “Are you finished? I want to head over to Lytton’s. I’m hungry.”

The younger teenager stood, and took another look around the small store, “What will become of this place?” 

James shrugged, “Dipnal will probably clear it out and rent it to the next tenant, I suppose.”

“And the rest of this stuff?”

“Garbage.”

A wave of sadness coursed over Alexander as he looked around. There was no time to sort through it all. He hadn’t been able to get to his mother’s things before they were taken. James was callous. 

“Shall we go, then, Alex?”

Alexander nodded mutely, following behind his brother, looking once more back over his shoulder as the pair made their way to the main road.

_ You know this is the last time you’ll see it, right? _

In front of Alexander, as his eyes watered, James tried to change the subject. 

“You’ll like the Lyttons,” he began. A breeze kicked up, blowing leaves across their path. “We both met him when we were much younger, but I doubt you remember. He’s quite funny. He knows everyone at the tavern.”

“That’s good, I suppose.” 

The two teenagers fell silent again with only the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind and the ever-present calls of the sea birds to punctuate the quiet. Alexander couldn’t stop thinking of their old store, and what would become of everything. Every little scrap presented some memory that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing. And yet, another voice chided him, where would he keep those things? How would he collect them? Certainly Peter Lytton wouldn’t want trunks full of old bills and scraps of notes with no context. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the seashell drawing, quickly imbuing it with every memory of his mother, making it a symbol of everything he’d lost. 

Alexander followed his brother into the town center, where a tiny one-horse carriage was waiting for them. 

“You the Hamilton boys?” The gruff driver barked over the noise. “I’m here to take you to--” he pulled out a grimy slip of paper and squinted at it, “Peter Lytton’s.”

“That is us, yes.” James replied. 

“Where are your bags?” The coachman asked, eyeing them. 

“No bags,” James’ voice cracked embarrassingly, and the older man laughed at him.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are, then? Where are your identification papers?”

“ _ You _ asked,” Alexander cut in, taking over for his brother. “You’re obviously expecting us.”

“Can’t take ye without papers.”

“We are recently orphaned. Surely you know how the blasted court system works. We have no papers!”

To Alexander’s surprise, the stagecoach laughed at this, revealing several missing teeth, “I’m just giving ye a hard time. Get in before the rain starts.”

James pushed past his younger brother, slightly red, into the tiny carriage. Alexander shot the coachman a look as he entered, “I don’t think you’re funny.”

The driver ignored him, and cracked the reins, jolting the small passengers as the coach pulled away.

****

The men before Aaron all looked relatively similar—stone-faced and pale, wrinkled, and old. He shifted his weight from his left to right foot, cleared his throat quietly while the professors in front of him looked over his papers, nodding and whispering to themselves. In the middle of them sat the dean himself, Dr. Witherspoon, wearing a look of bland disinterestedness that grated Aaron’s nerves. He felt a chill; steadied himself. 

“Mr. Burr, here we stand again,” Witherspoon opened, sighing. “What academic miracles have you graced us with this time?”

Aaron inhaled, “I took your suggestions, from the last time we met.”

“My suggestion was that you age five years. Have you somehow also managed to harness time itself, in addition to mastering Latin?”

The other professors of the admissions council chuckled into their laps. Witherspoon smiled dryly, waiting for the teenager to reply. 

“No, sir. But I do think you’ll find that I have improved my studies greatly. As well as my health.”

“Very well, then. Step forward.”

Aaron swallowed, and pulled a stack of papers from the leather bag at his side. He walked up to the long table where the professors sat and placed the stack in front of the dean. Witherspoon grabbed his spectacles from his vest pocket.

“And you have taken the admissions test, as well?’

“Yes, Dr. Witherspoon.”

“And where are those marks?”

One of the other professors cut in, handing the dean a slip of parchment, “Here you are, sir. Nearly a perfect score. Two answers, debatable. But it may be a matter of opinion.”

Witherspoon accepted it, glanced at it for a moment, eyes moving across the page rapidly. 

Aaron studied the dean, hoping to crack the facade of unimpressed boredom he saw etched into the old features. 

“Shall I stand or sit, sirs?”

Witherspoon looked at him, “Pardon? I do not care.”

The teenager nodded to himself and made his way back to his chair. As he sat, he felt his hands grow cold and wet. He sat on them nervously, watching the panel of professors hand each other his essays, muttering under their breaths, some nodding, some mouthing the words and frowning. Aaron tried to remember everything he said in the papers, suddenly cold. 

The silence while they exchanged his writing seemed to last hours. Aaron looked at the old men, then back at the floor, then at his shoes. He lamented silently that the curtains had been drawn shut, the room dimly lit with flickering candles and the small amount of pale sunlight that glowed through the fabric. He wished he could distract himself with scenes from outside, the campus surely filled with interesting people he could look at. 

The grandfather clock on the wall at the back of the room ticked on, Aaron tapped his feet  _ right, left, right, left, t _ o the rhythm of it. In another few seconds, the clock chimed the hour. The teenager started, looking behind him at the sound. Staring back at him was a portrait of his ugly, unsmiling grandfather and the enigmatic, wry looking Aaron Burr, Sr.

“Well, Mr. Burr, your marks seem to be in order. This is all impressive.” Witherspoon said finally. The quiet teenager turned back to look at him, suddenly feeling heavy. 

“I am a bit disappointed that some of these essays are much the same as the ones two years ago, however. I would have liked to see some new thoughts. You seem to have a strong understanding of the classics, Horace and Cicero especially.”

Several of the other old men nodded, impressed. One chimed in, “And mastering all this at thirteen, too.”

“I am fluent in Greek and Latin,” Aaron cut in, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The impressed looks turned sour.

“No need to brag, dear boy,” another one of the professors replied. “We see plainly that you are advanced for your age.”

Witherspoon continued, shuffling papers, “This essay…here. The one about music relieving anxiety. Is this from personal experience or just a theory? Your thesis is unclear.”

The dean pulled it out of the stack, frowning. Aaron inhaled.

“Just a theory, sir.”

“You will need to focus more on your arguments.”

“Yes, of course, Dr. Witherspoon.”

“I would have liked to see more citations and proof for your arguments.”

“Yes, Dr. Witherspoon.”

The old dean looked to his left and right, at the other old professors, talking low. Two of them nodded, one blinked. Aaron noticed every minute detail as he put his hands in his pockets to stop them from sweating.

“If you’ll permit me, sirs,” the teenager started, garnering looks from the professors in front of him, “Since my dismissal from the admissions process two years ago, I have applied myself ten-fold. I took into account what you, Dr. Witherspoon, told me, about diversifying my strengths and studying all manner of subjects, and I believe I have succeeded.”

Dr. Witherspoon’s expression was inscrutable; He eyed the teenager up and down, then sighed. “So, you have. My colleagues and I are very impressed.”

Aaron relaxed a little, “That is wonderful to hear. Thank you.”

The old dean gathered the papers and re-stacked them into a neat pile, clearing his throat, “We are impressed, Mr. Burr. It is clear to us that you have taken our advice, applied yourself, and made improvements beyond our expectations. This is extremely promising. I suppose I should expect nothing less with your pedigree. Therefore, we will gladly accept you as a student for the class of 1772.”

The old professors watched Aaron expectantly, one even offered a small, but dry, smile, “Congratulations, Mr. Burr.”

Aaron blinked, “Seventy-two?”

“Yes.”

“I believe I applied for a junior position, which would make that seventy-one, correct?”

The polite façade on Witherspoon’s face darkened, “We saw that, yes. And it is the learned opinion of this board that you will be better suited to our sophomore class.”

“I don’t understand,” Aaron started. Two of the old men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding his gaze. His palms began to sweat again in his pockets.

“What don’t you understand, Mr. Burr?”

“With all due respect, professors,” Aaron felt his mouth go dry, “You saw that I was applying for junior-year status, you said I met all the qualifications and in fact  _ surpassed _ your expectations—is all this not enough?”

The professors exchanged looks.

Witherspoon spoke after a moment, “You are not happy to be accepted into the most prestigious school in the country?”

Aaron scooted forward on his seat, “No! I am pleased, sirs. Truly. I just thought...well, since I have been studying for nearly three years, now, and have surpassed your expectations, you might consider allowing me a junior-year admission. I have spoken to many students who say that the coursework for sophomore level studies is quite easy--”

“--No coursework at this university is easy,” Witherspoon interjected coldly. 

“No, of course not, sir. I meant that--”

“--When I was inducted as dean just several years ago, I noticed a severe issue…” he looked at Aaron, thinking. 

Witherspoon pressed on, “…Let us just say that the admissions process was a bit lackadaisical. Frankly, this university was run like an orphanage. Allowing anyone who could hold a quill the right way admission into its hallowed halls. And for an institution such as this one, that is simply unacceptable. Surely you understand.”

Aaron felt himself grow warm, then cold, “Yes. I understand.”

The dean continued, “That being said, it has been my ambition to tighten the reins, so to speak. I will not be so accommodating. This, in turn, will make it all the more impressive to be a graduate of Princeton.”

He offered a tight-lipped smile.

Aaron steadied himself, and responded, “The effects of this policy will not be felt until many years in the future, will they not?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean to say, I agree with your policy and the logic behind it but this will have no effect on me. At worst, I am being set back a year arbitrarily. I feel, sir, as though I am being punished for—”

“—Enough.” Witherspoon held up a hand, expression darkened. “You have some cheek.”

Aaron lowered his gaze. The old man sitting on the far end of the bench cut in, “What a spoiled thing to say!”

Several of the others nodded in agreement. Witherspoon pointed his finger at the teenager, “You have been given an opportunity most grown men would die for, at thirteen, and you want to beg for  _ more _ ?”

Suddenly, the quiet shame that haunted him since his runaway attempt three years ago washed over Aaron, and he closed his eyes.

“You are lucky we don’t throw you out for such presumptuousness.”

“I apologize, sirs.”

“You will join this school as a sophomore, or you won’t join at all. Do you understand me, Mr. Burr?”

“I understand.” 

Witherspoon glared at him for a moment. A professor to his left adjusted himself in his seat, clearing his throat. The dean collected Aaron’s papers and tied them together with a ribbon neatly, placing them on the table in front of them. He beckoned for the teenager to come collect the essays. 

He spoke, “You have no earthly idea how lucky you are, Mr. Burr.”

Aaron kept his silence, staring at the parchment. He sat back down, and shoved the papers back into his case, chewing on his cheek. The professors spoke quietly amongst themselves while Aaron focused on the ticking of the clock. In another moment, Witherspoon spoke again.

“It has been agreed upon that you will enter Princeton college this September as a member of the sophomore class. You will then complete three years of study whereupon you will receive your diploma, provided you do not fail or drop out. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Doctor.”

“Very good,” the dean was brusque. He beckoned at the professor on the far left of the table, who stood and handed him a slip of parchment. 

“Come, Mr. Burr.”

The teenager lifted himself out of his seat and made his way to the shining walnut table where the panel of professors sat, smugly. 

Witherspoon handed him the paper, “Give this to your uncle to sign. This is your acceptance note. He will know what to do with it.”

Aaron nodded and put it in his pocket. Turning back, he caught the gaze of the two portraits on the far wall, flanking the noisy grandfather clock, bearing down on him.

“You are dismissed, Mr. Burr,” the dean called from behind him. He heard the old men standing, gathering their things as they talked softly amongst each other. Aaron unfolded the acceptance letter from his pocket, scanning it.

_ “It is with great Excitement that we agree to the Terms of your application, notwithstanding the following exceptions; one, that said Applicant enter in the sophomore class, to be matriculated in the spring of seventeen-hundred and seventy-two.” _

Somehow, Aaron marveled, it stung more seeing the decision in print, his hubris written out in black and white. He looked back over his shoulder as the last of the professors shuffled out of the room into the antechamber, still muttering to each other. The door shut, and he was alone with the internal ticking. He hitched his bag up over his shoulder, and made his way quietly to just outside the door, straining his ears.

“A second time, can you believe,” one deep voice Aaron didn’t recognize remarked. Some mumbled in assent. He leaned in closer. 

“The less we have to deal with the uncle, the better.”

Aaron heard Witherspoon’s voice, “I guarantee you Timothy Edwards doesn’t know the half of it.”

“Does he still receive the stipend?”

“Oh, his father saw to it in the will.”

“All of it for the nephew, no doubt.”

Aaron closed his eyes, pressing his ear to the door softly, focusing. 

The deep voice spoke again, “Amazing that he survived the fevers but that doesn’t mean he should get special treatment.”

A raspy, elderly voice responded, “We cannot ignore the boy’s genius, however.”

“Certainly not,” Aaron heard Witherspoon, “But we cannot allow him to be treated differently than his peers. After all, what does this University stand for if not fairness and quality?”

A fourth voice: “There must be some divine interference working in the boy’s favor, don't you agree?”

Aaron backed away from the door, having heard enough, embarrassed. He walked back through the room, avoiding the gaze of the portraits, through the opposite door into the cold, bright courtyard.

****

It had been eight weeks-- Alexander felt summer on the island bloom around him -- and knew, even though Peter refused to keep calendars in his house, that it was nearly May. The past two months had been challenging. 

The two teenage brothers fell into a rhythm quickly once they arrived at their cousins’. He was gregarious and welcoming but made it plain that they would only be visiting for a short while, after which he would give them their funds. Alexander let his guard slip, warmed and charmed by the man who had his mother’s smile. James’ sullenness dissipated-- he started a garden for fresh vegetables despite the sandy soil. He’d built a small shed for Peter’s tools. Alexander helped him, and Peter brought them snacks. It was the first time the teenager felt a lightness in his chest that evaded him since before his mother’s death. 

Quickly, Alexander learned of his cousin’s temperament. 

The lightness evaporated one April night while the spring rains poured around them. Alexander prodded at the fireplace with a poker, trying to dispel the cold humidity and bugs that cropped up around the same time every year. 

“What are you doing, Alexander?” Peter asked him, coming in with a bundle from outside. 

“Stoking the fire. I have heard that the smoke sometimes keeps the mosquitoes away.”

Peter dumped the bundle on the table, sighing loudly. He walked over to the teenager and grabbed the poker from him. 

“That is not necessary. The whole house will smell of smoke.”

“I just thought… perhaps it would be preferable than mosquitoes.”

Peter left the room and came back with a bucket of rainwater, throwing it dramatically on the fire, “I said no. Go set the table for dinner!”

Alexander remembered being confused, wondering what he’d done wrong. 

“Peter’s just like that. Can’t tell what will set him off,” James said one day while working on the shed. Alexander handed him a hammer. 

“It was...strange,” He said. 

“Peter’s alright. Just unpredictable, is all. Alexander, hand me the mallet, not the hammer.”

“Sorry.”

“Last week at the market he started a fist fight with a man who claimed his bread was fresh. I mean, to be fair, the bread was a bit stale. But I’ve never seen a man start a brawl over it,” James laughed to himself. Alexander couldn’t quite see what was so funny. 

“Was that the day he came home covered in flour?”

James slammed the mallet against one of the boards, jolting it into place, “Correct.”

“I don’t like it here. I want to go back to Stevens’.”

“We can’t. Something to do with residency. We have to prove we’re dependents of Peter’s before the court will allow him to give us money.” James picked up another board, and several nails. “Stupid, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. I suppose it makes a little sense. They want to make sure we are truly kin,” Alexander handed his older brother another nail. The sound of the hammer echoed off the trees behind them. 

James laughed again, unpleasantly, “You really are naive.”

“What? Why?”

The older brother looked down from his ladder, “Because Peter’s spending himself out of house and home. You know he had to sell  _ all _ his father’s servants  _ and _ entire library? We’re not getting a single wet shilling from him.”

_ “What?” _

“Are you deaf?”

Alexander rolled his eyes, watching his brother descend from the ladder, “No. I just didn’t know any of that.”

“Of course not. You’re a child.” James wiped his hands on his breeches. “The plan was to inherit the funds from the Lytton family. Once James Lytton died, Peter went a little insane. His father spoiled him rotten, left him everything  _ except _ an understanding of money. Now he’s just spending it on whatever. At least I’m getting an apprenticeship out of it.”

Alexander felt his stomach drop, “So I am staying here for nothing?”

James shrugged, “The Lyttons were well connected and wealthy, for a time. Maybe they know someone who needs a clerk or an apprentice.”

Alexander walked on eggshells after that, avoiding his cousins’ temper. He tried to remember if his mother ever mentioned the man’s mood swings and propensity to live beyond his means. 

Most days were pleasant, but Alexander found it hard to shake the troubled feeling that persisted in the back of his mind. James seemed to pay it no mind, he reasoned, and he tried to take his cues from his older brother. The house was safe and warm, and Alexander never went to bed hungry. He counted the days on a small piece of paper on his bedside table. 

Peter was known around town as a friendly, extravagant man, and when the three walked to the market he waved and stopped to talk to almost everyone. Some days, however, he ignored even the friendliest greetings, preferring to keep his gaze locked in front of him. Alexander nodded politely at the people in his place, slightly embarrassed. 

“Surely you know Mr. Cruger, of Beekman and Crugers?” Peter smiled at James and Alexander on a busy Saturday as a father and son made their way towards the young merchant. Silently Alexander thanked God that it was talkative Peter and not moody Peter. Cruger waved in a greeting.

“Hello! what a nice surprise,” He reached out his hand and shook Alexander’s, nodding at James and Peter. He added, his face softening, “I am sorry for the loss of your dear mother. I conducted business with her on multiple occasions-- you were such a good help. She was lovely and said such good things about you both.”

Alexander searched the face of the merchant silently. 

“Why, look at you two, how you’ve grown,” Cruger remarked loudly, “You will be looking for work soon, I wager!”

James interjected, proudly, “I have taken up an apprenticeship, thanks to the Lyttons.”

“He is a fast learner,” Peter replied, laughing, putting a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. Alexander stood behind them awkwardly.

“I have just come back from a stay in New York, if you can believe. I am now just in the market for some tools. The blacksmith isn’t out yet.”

“What sort of tools?” Peter asked the older man.

“Nails. We are fixing our roof. Some of the shingles are loose and with the summer storms picking up, I don’t want to take any chances.”

Peter waved his hand, “Nonsense, I believe this summer will be fine.”

“That’s not what the experts say,” Cruger replied, “The men in New York have ways of predicting these storms. They said this year will be especially bad.”

“Well my cousin James here is practicing carpentry. He’s as good as mastered it.” Peter beckoned for James to step forward. “Isn’t that right?”

“I wouldn’t say mastered--”

Cruger grinned, “What luck! Would you like a paid job, James? It won’t be much, but it will be some experience. How are you with patching roofs?”

It was James’ turn to blush, “I have only tried once.”

“That’s once more than I’ve tried,” Cruger responded. A loud clank in the distance signaled that the blacksmith had opened his shop. Cruger craned his neck, confirming that the smithery was open. “That will be my cue, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I have some nails to purchase.”

“Before you go, Mr. Cruger, you must join us for dinner tomorrow evening! I will have my cooks prepare a feast, celebrating your safe return from New York,” Peter interjected suddenly. 

“That is a splendid idea! I would love to see your home and beautiful farm,” the merchant called back to them, waving. 

Cruger nodded at James, Peter and Alexander, and walked away. Alexander watched the friendly merchant, feeling at once relegated to the background and singled out. This was a good day for Peter, bright and cheerful.

The next day, as Alexander feared, Peter did not leave his room. James packed his carpentry tools, annoyed. 

“Only God knows what goes through that man’s head. I’m heading to Cruger’s store. When he decides to come out let him know I’ve gone.” 

“When will you be back?”

“Does it matter?” James called over his shoulder, disappearing out the door.

****

The novelty of college wore off quickly.

Aaron was used to monotony and rote schedules-- and adjusted quickly to the daily grind of waking before dawn and going to sleep long after the sun had set. It had been a month since he’d begun classes, and the drudgery already began to wear on him. 

Matt caught up to him one afternoon. He dropped his voice to the tenor of an old professor, “You can’t sleep here, boy!”

Aaron woke with a start, having been resting his head on a table in the courtyard, papers spread around him, fluttering in the breeze. To his left, his inkwell had tipped, and spilled. Matt laughed.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a scare,” his cousin sat next to him, “But you’ve been here for an hour. I thought you were dead. Some squirrel ran off with your quill, by the way.”

Aaron rubbed his eyes and swore under his breath. He looked around him, head pounding, and tried to gather his papers. 

“I was up until dawn trying to translate this,” Aaron pulled one sheet from the stack, waving it. 

“Latin?”

Aaron nodded mutely. 

“No wonder it’s a dying language,” Matt took the paper and squinted at it, “God, I hate Latin.”

“Well, Dr. Witherspoon doesn’t. Dr. Witherspoon loves Latin. Says it’s his favorite language. Says we should all be speaking it, universally, to make commerce and understanding easier between countries.” Aaron sighed. Taking the paper back, he felt his resolve drop at the sight of the barely half-finished essay. 

“Why don’t you come out tonight? I am gathering a group of students. We’re going to walk around town and be a general nuisance. Maybe see what old Jacob Hyer is up to at Hudibras tavern. He gets drunk and sings at people. You’d like it,” Matt offered. 

“I can’t.”

“You know you can’t keep this pace up,” Matt replied, “Sleeping two hours a day. Scribbling infernal essays. Napping outside. You look insane.”

At this, a group of students walked past, one holding a freshly baked loaf of bread. Aaron eyed it, his stomach growling loudly. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Matt continued.

Aaron closed his eyes, thinking, “I don’t know. This morning?”

His cousin looked at him disapprovingly. Aaron ignored it.

“I have perfect scores on every assignment in all my classes. Surely I am doing  _ something  _ right.”

Matt rolled his eyes, “Not the bloody diet again.”

“Look, I would love to come out with you, but I simply cannot risk it. You understand what I mean,” Aaron looked at his cousin pointedly. “They are watching me, always.”

The other teenager exhaled, “I know, I know. I promise you, it will be okay.”

Aaron shrugged silently. Then, “I have to get to my tutor in ten minutes. He’s expecting me about some other blasted essay. I swear I have re-written the Bible three times since starting school.”

Matt put an arm around him, “Fine-- but just take care of yourself, for God’s sake. You won’t get any work done if you’re always passing out.”

Aaron nodded, and watched his cousin stand up, straightening his coat. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out an extra quill. 

“Here. I always carry a spare.”

“Thank you.”

Matt smiled and walked away, leaving Aaron alone with his schoolwork and empty inkwell. Aaron looked around him and sighed. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was expecting as a college student, but it was something better and more exciting than this. 

Matt was the only person who’d spoken to him since he’d started. The other students either ignored him, eyed him with suspicion, or-- worst of all-- mistook him for someone’s son or errand boy. He resented it. He packed his papers recalling one day the week before when a particularly senile professor ordered him to the marker to pick up a case of apples, chucking a few shillings at him, before Aaron was able to explain who he actually was. 

That was the worst of it. 

Aaron silently made his way through the courtyard, students meandering around him, talking and laughing amongst themselves. He had two choices, as he saw it.

Demand attention.  _ Don’t you know who I am? I am supposed to be here. I earned this.  _

Or, accept his fate as a silent ghost, quietly going about his business.  _ Another perfect score, Mr. Burr. You are our top performing student!  _

The first option, Aaron thought while he struggled with an old, heavy door, was simple enough. He would go out with Matt. He would ingratiate himself with people. He would eat. He would enjoy himself. The second option guaranteed that he wouldn’t disappoint those who had such little faith in him, they attributed his success to two dead men.

Aaron made his way down the long, dimly lit corridors, to Judge Paterson’s office. He stifled a yawn, and knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” a reedy voice answered.

“Mr. Paterson,” Aaron said, opening the door. The small office was furnished with minimal decor. A medium-sized, walnut-colored desk sat in front of a small window. To his left, several bookshelves. The teenager stepped inside and shut the door. 

“Hello, Mr. Burr!” 

William Paterson was one of the younger members of faculty at the university, as Aaron understood it. Though not technically a professor, the law student volunteered his time to tutor the more promising students. He was nearly a head taller than Aaron, with thick brown hair and a rather large nose. He was slim, and dressed in faded clothes, but still somewhat handsome. Aaron eyed him, shaking his hand. 

“Hello, Mr. Paterson. I hope I am not too early.”

“Nonsense! Please, call me William,” the older man sat, his chair creaking. “I am glad you were able to make it. I spoke to your cousin Mr. Ogden last week and he said how stressed you are.”

“Oh,” Aaron said quietly, taking off his coat, “I wish he hadn’t said that.”

‘There is no need to be ashamed. You are working too hard, it sounds like. I know we were supposed to discuss Horace but I think perhaps that can wait. Are you hungry?”

Paterson motioned to a basket behind him, filled with fruit. Before Aaron could stop himself, he nodded, accepting a pear. 

“You know, starving yourself won’t help your academics.”

Aaron swallowed, ‘That is what everyone says, but I have found that when I am too full, I cannot concentrate”

The older man smiled, “We will have to devise ways for you to concentrate better on your studies!”

Aaron nodded, chewing. He watched the older man pull out a stack of papers from beneath his desk. 

“Letters to young students, just like you. It is hard for them, as well. When you are surrounded by those who are years older than you it can be hard to relate to anyone,” Paterson remarked. “I am interested in how you are faring here, firstly.”

Aaron chewed for a moment, turning over different answers in his mind. “I am fine.”

Paterson looked at him, “You are?”

The teenager took another bite of the pear, suddenly feeling put on the spot. He reached into his bag, pulled out some papers and a quill, steadying himself against another bout of light-headedness. 

“Yes. Perfectly acceptable.”

“You look pale as a ghost. And so small.”

“ _ I am fine, _ ” Aaron shot back. “I wish my cousin hadn’t said anything. He’s nosy. I am sick to death of everyone watching me all the time.”

The older tutor made a face, “Watching you?”

Aaron threw up a hand, “Yes. I feel as though I am being watched. I do not need supervision.”

He finished the pear in another three bites. Paterson pursed his lips. 

Then, “I think you may be paranoid. No one is watching you.”

Aaron sulked, sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms. He stared at the work in front of him. It was no use trying to explain his situation to someone who would never, in one thousand years, understand how he felt. 

Paterson reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, “I think, perhaps, your sour mood and paranoia-- yes, Aaron, paranoia-- comes from this...whatever this diet is.”

The teenager shot him a look, “How on  _ earth  _ do you know about that? If I am not being watched?”

The tutor gave him a knowing look. 

“Fine. Some at the school are a little worried about you. That is all.”

“For God’s  _ sake _ .”

“But I assure you, no one is watching you. No one is monitoring your every move, as you put it.” Paterson remarked. 

Aaron rubbed his eyes, standing. Immediately, another wave of light-headedness overtook him, and he stumbled. In the next moment, the tutor reached out to catch him. 

“Good Lord,” Paterson said, exasperated, “Just go lie down. You’re in no condition for studying.”

The teenager steadied himself against the older man, embarrassed. He straightened up, closing his eyes and letting the dizziness subside. 

“May I take another pear?” He muttered. 

“Take the whole basket. There’s bread and cheese in it, too. You clearly need it more than I.”

Paterson tried for a kind smile, but Aaron felt patronized. He sheepishly grabbed the food and packed his things to go. 

After a silent few seconds, he spoke quietly, “You won’t tell anyone about this?”

“Not a soul. On my honor.”

“Good.” Aaron replied. “Thank you for the food. Shall we meet again this time tomorrow?”

Paterson raised a hand, “Whatever you want.”

Aaron inhaled, feeling a headache creeping on. He took one last look at the older student and nodded once. 

****

The night of the dinner was at hand, and Alexander spent the day appeasing his cousin, trying to figure out his mood. 

In the morning, Peter was lively. He made tea for himself and his two wards, opened the windows to let a sea breeze in, and commented on the flowers that began to bloom on the path in front of his house. He revealed he’d been awake since before dawn. 

Alexander looked around and saw the piles of vegetables, meats, fruits, and three different pies, already sitting on the counter. Several flies buzzed excitedly around them. 

“Who bought all this?” he asked his cousin. “Have you had the servants working all  _ night _ ?”

Peter either did not hear him or did not want to answer. He made his way outside to the garden, hitching up his horse to head back into town.

“Don’t you think we have enough?”

“It is important that we impress Cruger,” Peter called over the wind, bending down to grab his hat that had blown off in the wind, “He will want many different dishes, so he can choose the best.”

Alexander nodded, “Why do we  _ need _ to impress him?”

Peter pretended not to hear the teenager as he pushed his horse towards the town center.

In the next hour, Peter was back inside, scolding Alexander for questioning his decisions.

“People will stare at us. They will think I have no control over you. Go clean up, you’re filthy and your shirt smells,” he barked. 

Alexander nodded at this, as well, realizing quickly that arguing with him was useless. He went to his room, and pulled a clean shirt from his trunk.

_ It is warm, safe, and you are well cared for, _ Alexander told himself.  _ So what if Peter is difficult? Surely he hasn’t spent all the money. _

Cruger arrived at five o’clock, and Peter swore loudly that he’d said six. He made him wait on the stoop for ten minutes before James forced Peter to open the door and let them in, revealing the embarrassed merchant. Peter threw his arms up dramatically.

Alexander nodded a greeting to Cruger.

“Apologies if I upset him,” Cruger said, taking his jacket off and hanging it on a hook. 

“It’s...he’s fine. Come in.”

Peter came out thirty minutes later, smiling sheepishly at his guest.

“I am sorry, all. You will have to forgive me, I did not sleep well last night.”

“Nonsense, sit down and enjoy the dinner! It is delicious, by the way,” Cruger responded. He encouraged the others to nod and smile. The conversation fell into a rhythm of anecdotes and polite questions, dancing over the darker subjects-- notably why Alexander and James were staying with Peter in the first place. Cruger seemed to know already, and no one dared broach the subject. The sun began to set by the time they were all finished; Alexander noticed the remaining pile of vegetables, a rather large pile, left on the counter. 

James caught Alexander’s eye, trying to tell him something. A servant brought out another bottle of expensive wine. Peter reached for it excitedly.

“How goes the roofing project, James?” Peter asked.

“Fine, I suppose. Mr. Cruger is a good teacher. He taught me how to layer the shingles so nothing leaks through. It’s a bit scary on the roof, but you get used to it.”

“He  _ is _ a fast learner, you were right,” Cruger said. His gaze landed on Alexander, who hadn’t said a thing throughout dinner. “And you, Alexander? What sorts of jobs do you like to do?”

“I like… well, I kept the books at my mother’s store. I suppose I like that.”

“Have you thought about a clerkship?” Cruger asked simply. At Alexander’s silence, he continued, “I mean, there are plenty of merchants on the island who need help running their books. I can name three just off the top of my head. Just last week one of them talked my ear off for nearly an hour about how he kept losing track of entire barrels full of rum because his men kept stealing them.”

“Whole barrels?” Alexander asked, nonplussed. 

Cruger laughed, “Well-- he wasn’t clear, but I believe they’d been siphoning off small amounts here and there until one came up empty.”

“Has to be Williams. Man’s an idiot,” Peter mumbled. 

“The very same,” Cruger replied. “Alexander, if you like bookkeeping, why don’t you spend some time with Mr. Beekman and I? Surely you have the requisite experience.”

“You don’t mind hiring a child?” Peter cut in. Alexander shrunk in his seat. 

“An ordinary child, yes. But Alexander here has more experience than most with shop keeping, wouldn’t you agree?” Cruger responded. “Besides, I prefer paying a young apprentice who will not cost me as much as a grown man.”

The older men laughed, James smiled, wanting to be in on the joke. Alexander stared at the tablecloth, suddenly nervous and excited. He chewed another bite of his dinner thoughtfully.

“What if I were to take you on, just part time, then?” Cruger smiled again. “Would you like that?”

Peter dropped his fork loudly, “Why on earth do you want to work as a clerk? What is wrong with a job that requires skill, or labor? Like carpentry, for instance. Or farming. Not some little accountant.”

“I never said I wanted to be a farmer,” Alexander cut in. 

“I think the boy has other ambitions,” Cruger added.

Peter laughed unpleasantly, “Yes, I’m sure. Do you have ambitions, Alexander?”

The teenager kept his mouth shut, catching his brother’s gaze. James rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

“May I be excused, sirs?” he interjected, standing. “I am full to bursting. Mr. Cruger, it was a pleasure.”

“May I join him?” Alexander said, not waiting to be excused. He followed the other boy into the adjoining room, away from the tense table. The pair of teenagers made their way through the kitchen in the back of the house, and out into the chilly night air. 

“Had to get out of there.” James remarked putting his hands in his pockets. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Alexander responded. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Peter.”

James was quiet for a moment, looking around him. In the distance, waves crashed lazily on the beach, the coast visible through rows of houses and businesses that lined it. He swatted a mosquito away from his face. 

“I do,” James sighed. He was silent for a second while Alexander waited. James stuck his hands in his pockets. “Peter’s hoping to get a loan from Cruger. He’s trying to impress him.”

Alexander broke his stare, “Why?”

“Come on. You know why.”

“He’s...is Peter out of money?” Alexander asked.

James nodded silently. Then, “It’s gotten worse. His creditors keep trying to get me to talk to him. He hides from them and won’t answer their letters. I had one climb up onto Cruger’s roof to talk to me, if you can believe.”

Alexander felt his mood drop, “He’s going to go to debtor’s prison.”

James inhaled, “Cruger knows something is amiss, but not the whole story. He’s too polite to bring it up.”

“Is he going to give Peter money?” Alexander asked.

James scoffed, “Would _ you?” _

Alexander looked at his brother for a moment.

James went on, “I don’t mean to be brusque.”

“No, not at all,” Alexander said quietly. “What is going to happen to him?”

Silence fell between them while Alexander ruminated on his prospects. James answered, “Depending on whether or not he can secure a loan, we will either stay with him until our residency is up or go back to the Stevens’. Personally, I don’t care where we go as long as I can keep practicing carpentry.”

Alexander stared into the distance; the ocean stretched on forever, churning angrily.

“We should probably get back to see how Peter and Cruger are faring,” James said after a beat. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and turned to go back inside without looking back.


	4. Change

Aaron made it a point to wake before the morning bell. He marveled at how his internal clock worked: as he lay down to sleep at night, he silently told himself what time he should wake. In the morning, his body seemingly remembered the reminder, and woke itself. 

Those unfortunate enough to sleep through the morning bell, Aaron learned one day, were embarrassed by their peers. One boy was ignored, allowed to sleep through his classes. He was subsequently expelled. Another was frightened half to death by a servant, who was told to douse him with water. A third was left in an awkward situation when his roommates stole all of his clothing, and he was forced to wander around campus in his night-shirt. 

He made his way down to the common area, and into the chapel for the morning prayer. The booming organ shook him from whatever torpor was left after the first clanging of the bells. The frightful portrait of Jonathan Edwards bared down on all of them while the sermon was bellowed from the pulpit. The racket gave Aaron a headache, and his stomach grumbled loudly. To his left, a few boys snickered at the sound. Another bellow of the ridiculous organ silenced them.

The prayers ended, and Aaron stood, swaying slightly.

“Can you make it until eight?” A voice behind him whispered. “You’ve got over an hour.”

Aaron turned to see an older man, perhaps nineteen, smiling at him. He held out his hand. 

“Samuel.”

“Aaron,” he answered. “Was I that loud?”

“I thought it was the bench creaking.” Samuel responded quietly, as the students began to shuffle out. “I’ve seen you around before, but I thought you were someone’s son.”

Aaron’s shoulders fell, and he rubbed his eyes, “I know. Everyone seems to think I am either lost or looking for my guardian. Someone mistook me for a servant last week.”

Samuel laughed, garnering a look from the older members of the faculty. He quieted, making his way out of the pew.

He continued, “Well, it could be a bit of a blessing. At least you are able to go about your business with no interruption. If people don’t think you’re a student, they’ll have no reason to stop you and ask you to recite some trivial academic nonsense on the spot.”

“Has that happened to you?”

“Twice. Once when I was on my way to do some very private business, if you know what I mean,” Samuel raised his eyebrows. Aaron nodded quickly.

“Shame they would catch you on the way to the privy.”

The pair made their way into the morning sun, outside of the chapel. Samuel barked a laugh, “You’re funny! I was on my way to see a  _ girl _ .”

Aaron’s cheeks burned, “Right. Of course.”

“Anyway, professor Isaac-- you know the old pervert who teaches arithmetic-- he’s the one who caught me. I was so furious I swore in his face but the old fool is deaf as a plank of wood so I don’t think he heard. But I bet if no one knew I was a student, I’d make it.” Samuel wrapped his scarf tighter against the wind. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I just turned fourteen,” Aaron said, exaggerating his age. In the distance, the study hall loomed. He prayed Samuel would invite him to sit together, and he could break the incessant streak of monotonous loneliness.

Samuel laughed again, and threw up his hands, “Good Lord, this is practically a nursery. No offense to you, of course. But they’re just letting anyone in now, I suppose. I had to study for five years before they’d even  _ consider _ me. “

“Witherspoon told me he was trying to tighten up the admissions, if you can believe.”

“He’s insecure, I’ll wager. He’s got a lot to live up to. But he’s fighting a losing battle if he thinks he’ll outdo Edwards,” Samuel opened the door for Aaron. “My friend in Paris said the only other American they know besides Dr. Franklin is Reverend Jonathan Edwards. You know they have plates with his stupid old face on them? Imagine that. Imagine trying to eat your soup with that old bastard staring up at you.”

Aaron tripped on a raised floorboard and fell into the older student. Samuel caught him, “Careful! Are you alright?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he straightened himself out, embarrassed. He looked around the room for an empty table. 

“Why don’t you come sit with us,” Samuel offered, and Aaron breathed a sigh of relief. The older student motioned to a table in the far corner with three other boys, who waved at them. Aaron recognized one as Paterson, and immediately relaxed. 

“Aaron!” He called. The professor monitoring the study hour shot him a murderous look. He added, sheepishly, “Oh, sorry,”

“You know each other?” Samuel asked, sliding into a seat.

“He is my tutor,” Aaron replied, smiling at Paterson. 

“Not that he needs it,” Paterson said. “You should see this boy’s essays. How are you feeling today?”

The two other students smiled politely, introducing themselves as Timothy and James, and Aaron nodded at each of them in turn. 

“There you are,” Aaron heard Matt’s voice from behind him. He turned to see his cousin making his way to their table. His relief turned to nerves.

“Who are your friends?” Matt asked, making himself comfortable. “I’m Matt, hello.”

Samuel and Paterson introduced themselves.

“How do you know each other?” Samuel asked.

“We’re cousins,” Matt answered. “I’m an Ogden. My mother married his uncle.”

“Wait, is your step-father Timothy Edwards?” Paterson cut in. He looked at Aaron. “That would make you Esther’s son?”

Aaron shrunk in his seat, pretended to be searching for a citation in a book, “Correct.”

Matt hit him on the arm, “Why didn’t you tell them who you are?”

“Didn’t seem pertinent.”

Samuel interrupted, “Jesus, here I am just rambling on about the College like a fool. You probably know everything there is to know about this place already. No wonder they let you in at fourteen. Not that you don’t deserve it.” He added quickly. 

“Can you see the resemblance, now?” Paterson asked, looking at the younger boy. 

“Sorry I called your grandfather a bastard,” Samuel said.

“He was,” Aaron responded.

Aaron kept his mouth shut as the three older students continued their discussion of their daily life and studies. He zoned out, letting the words in his book blur together, reading the same sentence ten times over.

****

“A pretty and fitting memorial spot, Alex,” Ned Stevens said the first time Alexander had brought him to the quiet stretch of beach where he’d convinced himself his mother’s ghost resided. Rachel was not that awful grey corpse, dumped into the ground, without even a headstone to memorialize her.

The dinner between Peter and Cruger replayed in his mind. It was a horribly awkward thing. Alexander kept seeing Peter’s desperate face, even as the sun went down and the room was dimly lit by candlelight. Peter and Cruger danced around the topic of money, and it set Alexander’s nerves on edge. 

The sky darkened over the ocean, and the two boys stood silently for a moment, watching the gathering clouds.

“I wanted to take you here before it all gets blown to hell,” Alexander replied bitterly.

“Don’t be negative. The storm may pass us over,” Ned responded.

Alexander did not say anything. He judged the breeze and the low rumbles of thunder, pretending he had some knowledge of meteorology. These things took their time over the ocean, he’d learned. The beach was deathly quiet; the tide was low and reeked of fish. The white sand took on a greying color in the dimming light.

Peter had been sullen, even more so lately. The Stevenses came to visit, and Alexander was pleased to see their son again, but the news Ned brought with him left an uncomfortable envy inside Alexander’s chest. He pushed the thought away.

Ned shifted next to him, “Come, Alex, we must get back before your cousin worries. You know he assumes the worst when we are gone together.”

A breeze blew across the beach, ruffling their hair. A pair of gulls screamed above them, eerily out of place in the silence. Behind them, a handful of shopkeepers boarded up their storefronts and living quarters, their voices muffled in the wind. It happened like this every summer: the islanders preparing for the worst, hoping for the best, while everyone held their breath. 

Alexander looked at his friend and nodded, “Peter’s learned to stop asking questions. Besides, he can do without his pitiable ward for one more evening.”

“Are you feeling well?” Ned stepped closer, and put his arm around the other boy, “I know this must have been hard. I swear to you I will not tell a soul about this place, and what it means to you.”

One gull screamed, the other echoed him. Alexander watched as the two birds dove headlong towards the beach, attacking a stranded crab who’d been trapped in the low tide.

“I am sick of the uncertainty,” Alexander said. “Cruger has not responded to my letters. I cannot ask Peter for help for fear of setting off his temper and I am sure your father is doing everything he can.”

Ned looked at him solemnly, withholding his response. A loud rumble of thunder interrupted them, and the air became wet with mist. 

“I am terrified if I leave, I will forget this place, and then no one will know of her.” Alexander felt the small seashell drawing in his pocket, having taken to carrying it around with him like a good luck charm.

Another few seconds of silence while the pair stood side by side, staring out at the water. In the distance, a ship made its way slowly to the nearby port, gulls encircling it like flies. 

“You know that’s not true. She has--had-- many friends who will keep her memory alive.”

Alexander exhaled, “Friends. I don’t know if I’d call them that.”

“I don’t believe the rumors, and neither should you.” Ned crossed his arms. A stiff wind made white caps on the ocean.

“It doesn’t matter either way, I suppose. She’s the only one who could set the record straight. Her and my father. And...well,” Alexander trailed off, looked at his friend hopelessly.

Ned uncrossed his arms and put them in his pockets. After a beat, he replied, “I bet the mainland has better records about the Caribbean. The English and Danish obsess over lineage, you know that. I’m sure some dusty old library has some--”

“--You are still determined to leave Nevis then, Ned?” Alexander cut him off. 

He already knew the answer. The thought wouldn’t leave him. Alexander heard the boy next to him inhale, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“You know I have no other option,” Ned replied. Then, quieter, “You know if my family had more money, we would keep you and your brother forever. I would take you to the colonies with me, Alex.”

“Peter is not right in the head.” Alexander responded cruelly, digging the tip of his shoe into the wet sand. “All the townspeople talk about him too. Did you know he pawned a book of mine for 3 shillings? That’s what the tavern-keep told me.”

“They are simpletons,” Ned retorted, turning his full gaze to his friend. “You know he is a kind man who will do what he can for you and James.”

“My entire family is fodder for provincial gossip.”

“Well, consider yourself the most interesting person this island’s ever seen, then,” Ned smiled at him.

“I think I will go speak with Cruger in person today. Perhaps my letter was lost in the mail.”

“It has been known to happen, I suppose. What will you ask him?”

“I will throw myself on his mercy and beg for any sort of work that will keep me occupied,” Alexander replied, exhaling loudly. 

“Perhaps the old reverend will help you? He was telling us last week how interested he is in your well-being. I think he’s fond of you.”

Alexander suddenly felt calm, “Do you really think so?”

Ned nodded vigorously, “Oh yes. He inquired about me and my studies on Sunday after the service, and then he asked us if we knew why you weren’t there. I suppose he was expecting you. Then he said how he feels drawn to your cause. He  _ wants _ to help you, Alex, if you’ll let him.”

“He told me about his teacher dying and leaving behind some orphans. That is why,” Alexander replied. 

“Not just any friend-- I overheard my father asking him about it. They were relations to Jonathan Edwards. The reverend has good connections in New Jersey. I bet he could get you there, to study.”

A tiny spark of hope flashed in Alexander’s mind. Then, reality came to him, “And who should pay for such a journey? Peter’s spent everything his father left him, and I cannot keep asking your father for money.”

Ned sighed, “No, I suppose you are right. But who knows? He is a kind and good man, with much at his disposal for you and your brother.”

“I am thinking about the infantry on the island,” Alexander said after a few seconds of silence. Ned looked at him, shocked. He continued, “It is expected of every young and able-bodied man that he should join. And it seems the only way for penniless orphans to make their way in the world. I have done some reading. I will be given food, and wages, and maybe even taught a skill or trade. It would be a boon.”

“But-- I mean-- you’re so small. And  _ young _ .”

“There have been other fourteen-year old’s who have become good soldiers.”

Ned ruminated on Alexander’s prospect for a moment, then responded, “I think whatever you choose, I have faith you will succeed.”

Alexander looked at him, “You are patronizing me.”

“I am not! I swear.” Ned stepped closer and put an arm around him. “You can join the infantry, and travel to New York, and put your time in. And then after a few years who knows? You may be able to leave it and start a new life.”

“I want to study medicine with you,” Alexander heard himself say, almost involuntarily. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “But that is out of my reach.”

“Not so. There are plenty of men who come from little means, or low birth, like us, who make their way to college just fine. You will see. Things are different in the colonies. There are avenues for young men like ourselves,” Ned replied, helpfully. Alexander’s fears were assuaged somewhat, but the nagging feeling still remained.

“What if I fail? What if all of this is for  _ nothing _ ?”

“You mustn’t think that way.”

Alexander pushed a seashell into the wet sand with his foot. 

“What if I study everything I can-- and learn all I can from Cruger-- only to realize my education is meager and provincial-- they will laugh at me, Ned, and--”

“Who is ‘they’? Who are these phantoms in your mind?” Ned said, smiling at his friend. “You will always regret  _ not _ taking action. Think of yourself in old age, looking back on your life. What do you want to see?”

Alexander chewed this thought over in his mind, feeling at once both reckless and cautious.

****

Six months-- Aaron marked the time on a calendar. The time for finals had come and passed, and within those weeks the teenager learned more outside of class than within. 

His marks came back nearly perfect. He kept the papers to himself for as long as he could, until the announcement was made listing the highest performers. Witherspoon read his name, the fourth highest score out of hundreds, like he was listing off a budget. But the damage had been done. Several students craned their necks to see the boy -- “Aaron Burr?  _ That _ Aaron Burr? I thought he died. I thought his parents sent him abroad. Well of course he’d be studying here. Top marks? A  _ fourteen _ -year-old? Now wait just a minute--”

As soon as Witherspoon was done with the announcement, Aaron fled from the hall, pulling the collar of his jacket up high even in the midday heat, sweating through his layers. 

He made his way to the dormitories, mentally preparing for Matt’s arrival to their room.

“What has gotten into you?” In a few seconds, Matt was behind him, shutting the door, wide eyed. “I turned and you were gone!”

“I want to go to the tavern tonight. In town.”

Matt laughed, “Why in God’s name would you want to do that?”

Aaron shrugged, “I don’t know. Isn’t that what people do? For fun?”

His cousin faltered, still smiling, “Well, I mean-- yes. But you… you don’t even leave campus. Some people didn’t even know you were a student here until Witherspoon made his announcement. Don’t you want to do some reading?”

Aaron shook his head, “No. May I not celebrate my successes?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. Then that is what I will do.”

“I have to warn you, Hyer doesn’t like children-- he might throw you out,” Matt replied.

_ “I am not a child _ ,” Aaron replied, more sternly that he wanted. His cousin gave him a look. 

“Uncle Timothy’s not going to like you spending your inheritance on watery ale and stale bread,” Matt remarked, his grin fading. 

“I don’t care. I can’t stay here anymore. I am losing my mind at this place.”

“By your marks I’d say you’re  _ expanding _ your mind.”

“Matt, I am serious.” Aaron focused his gaze on the other boy. 

Matt sighed, looking around at their Spartan room, “I suppose you’re right. It’s rather dreary. The weather is so nice, now, and the sun sets late… I think we can probably sneak out for a bit.”

Aaron spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the town, small though it was. He stuck his hand in his pocket, felt the shillings he’d put there for some spending money, and made his way down the road to the town center. He closed his eyes, listening to the birds, feeling the sun on his face. It was the first time he’d been able to leave the confines of the campus. 

He thought about Witherspoon announcing his grades, and the resentment he felt radiate off his fellow students. A pit formed in his stomach. So  _ this  _ was how it was to be. Friends, or accolades. Two choices. 

Aaron nodded a greeting at a smiling old woman who was hanging several white linen shirts to dry. He came upon what he assumed to be the town itself and was rather disappointed.

At the end of the road was the tavern; a man whom Aaron assumed to be the grumpy old tavern-keep, Hyer, was out front smoking a pipe. To the left and right of this establishment were small shops for specialized things-- one sold what appeared to be cheap china, and the other, candles. Further down was a general store that looked to be closed, and past that was a blacksmith. At the other end was a tinsmith, a tall, unmarked building, a church, and a barn where three horses stood tied to posts, waving their tails lazily. 

Aaron spotted a bench outside the general store and made his way there. A couple women exited, and he smiled at them in greeting, too. 

Another man walked out of the tinsmith with his son in tow, and Aaron watched the scene with warm affection. 

He pulled out a book-- a novel with no academic value-- and began reading. He passed the afternoon on his own, studying the people of the small village. On each hour, the clock in the center square tolled pleasantly, so Aaron never lost track of time. At five, he stood, stretched his legs, and put his book back into his bag, making his way to the tavern.

****

“I will certainly allow you to miss our meetings if I know you are employed, Little Hamilton,” Knox said to him one day while they sat at his table. “You have spoken to Mr. Cruger, I presume.”

“Yes, he mentioned he was in need of a clerk to help him run his business while he travels. I told him I had been studying bookkeeping and mathematics, and he said he would be happy to hire me on.”

Their last conversation replayed through the teenager’s head, and he silently cursed himself for giving up quiet afternoons with the Reverend, studying old tomes, in exchange for the stress and aggravation of running a shop on his own. 

Papers scattered wildly in front of Alexander, some important letters, others, business propositions, still others covered in numbers and sums-- Alexander slammed his hands randomly on his desk trying to keep them from blowing everywhere as the sea breeze whipped through the tiny office. He slapped a bug against his neck, in the process allowing six pages of bookkeeping notes to scatter across the floor. He swore loudly and went to pick them up, another gust of wind finishing the job.

“Why did I ever agree to this?” Alexander grumbled to himself. He stood to pick up the pile of receipts, his heart dropping as he noticed one of the papers was a letter from Ned. He panicked, and shook the dirt off it, scanning it to make sure it was still intact. He sighed in relief, and folded it gently, sliding it into his private journal. 

At first, he’d taken to keeping all the letters - received, sent and unsent-- in a tear in his mattress. Then, one sweltering day in the middle of June, he caught a mouse nibbling on them. Alexander shouted and swore and chased the rodent out of his room with a stick, but the damage had been done and almost half the letters were destroyed. 

He felt the stupid lump well up in his chest at the unfairness of it and screamed at the mouse as if that would make a difference. 

His cousin flew into the bedroom, fearful - “What in God’s name is that racket? Are we being robbed?” 

The teenager shoved past him rudely and made his way to the clerking office, already late.

This was where he spent approximately half of his time. Away from his overworked cousin, he was subject to the cramped and dull office work. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Alexander whined, itching his neck where a bug had bitten him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. 

“What was that, Hamilton? Is something wrong?” His boss, twenty-five-year-old Nicholas Cruger, stuck his head in the doorway and the younger clerk rushed to look busy.

“Nothing--nothing, sir. Just a gust of wind. I’ll have these picked up and--”

“--Not just picked up. Organized, too.” Cruger stepped into the tiny office and looked around. “These had better be in order, Hamilton, or I swear on my own life I will ship you away instead of the sugar.”

“If only,” Alexander muttered under his breath, swiping two pages of signatures as they floated across his path.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. Do be careful!”

“I think we should shut the windows, sir,” Alexander tried.

“No. Not on a day like today,” Cruger rocked back and forth on his feet, inhaling deeply, “That sea breeze-- what a joy!”

At this, a third gust of wind shook the office, coming in through an eastern window, and out through a western one, taking another six pages with it. Alexander swore to himself, back turned to his boss, and gritted his teeth.

“Nothing like it, eh?” Cruger said, smiling.

The younger clerk didn’t answer, still picking up various papers.

“I said, nothing like it!”

“Nothing like it, no.”

_ Perhaps Reverend Knox can hire you as a personal scribe? _

“Will you be able to stay late tonight? We are getting a large shipment of flour this evening and it is on course to be here at 8 o’clock and I need someone to be here to take inventory.” Cruger stuck his hands in his pockets, watching Alexander situate what was left of the papers on his desk. The young clerk felt the color rise in his cheeks.

“It will be no trouble, sir,” Alexander lied.

“Fantastic! I knew I could count on you. Eight pm, on the dot. Do not leave until all packages are accounted for. Should be nearly four hundred pounds. I want all documentation first thing in the morning. You can do that, can’t you?” Cruger did not wait for the young clerk to answer. “Of course you can, indefatigable as you are! Why, I bet you could stay for a week and not be tired.”

Cruger waited for a response, and, getting none, continued, “Well. I suppose that does it, then. I am going to have to leave early today--the wife is making tea for us and some visitors-- your dear friend Reverend Knox!”

He trailed off absentmindedly, looking around. He saw the look on Alexander’s face and paused. 

“I see you’ve got this under control. I shall leave you to it, then.”

Alexander watched as his boss walked out the door.

It was well after nine before the shipment came. Alexander’s stomach growled loudly, having not eaten dinner. He briefly thought of the warm snacks that Cruger and Knox would be enjoying while he stayed suffering in the dank, sea-smelling office. When the sun went down, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, and the young clerk shivered as he counted the shipment boxes off one by one.

He made his way around the docks, checking off each barrel as he saw it. “These are from Philadelphia?”

One of the sailors grunted assent. Alexander tried to catch their gazes, but none of the men could look him in the eye. 

“Why are there holes in this one? And over here-- what on  _ earth _ \--”

Alexander lifted the lid on one of the barrels and jumped back in disgust. Inside was the flour as ordered, but it was teeming with worms. The powder writhed and moved like living sand. The teenager held a hand to his mouth.

“Excuse me!” Alexander shouted over the waves and gulls, trying to get the attention of who he thought was the captain. “ _ Excuse me! _ ”

One of the sailors pushed past him rudely. 

“You! With the scar!  _ Sir _ !”

Finally, he grabbed the sleeve of one of the men, who tried to shake him off, “What do you want?”

“This flour-- have you looked at it? It’s full of worms. This cannot be sold.” Alexander inhaled, trying to look older than he was. “This flour is old. You cannot honestly expect Cruger to pay for this.”

The sailor shrugged, “We did our jobs. It’s been delivered. Don’t care what’s in it.”

“This is just unacceptable.” 

A couple of the sailors overheard the conversation and laughed, and Alexander felt his face burn. He watched helplessly as the men boarded their ship, leaving him surrounded by the useless barrels of rotten flour. He closed his eyes in aggravation, trying to imagine how Cruger would take the news. 

He made his way back to the freezing office to draft a letter to his boss, adjusting the scarf around his neck.

“Your Philadelphia flour is really very bad,” Alexander recited under his breath as he wrote, “Upon opening several barrels I observed a kind of worm-- very common in flour-- about the surface. This is an indication of age. It could not have been very new when it was shipped and for all these reasons, I conceive it highly necessary to lessen the price. If not, I may be obliged in the end to sell it at a much greater disadvantage.”

The teenager sighed deeply, reading and rereading his letter, knowing that he would be blamed for the bad luck and lost money.

As he had feared, drudgery wrapped itself around him at the merchant’s job, and this was just the latest injustice. He chewed his lip as he scratched the ink pen on the parchment in front of him -- check, check, check-- and suddenly it was bleeding.

“Damn,” Alexander whispered, bringing his hand up to his mouth. A tiny droplet of blood hit the paper. He waited a moment until it dried, then scratched it out with ink.

He walked back into the office and grabbed a thin scarf, eyeing the clock and calculating that it was midnight -- he had to calculate on his own, and could not trust the clock at its word, as Cruger always kept it twenty minutes slow.

“Can’t figure out how to set the thing,” he recalled his boss saying during one of their daily meetings. Alexander knew it was a lie.

“Can’t set the clock, indeed.” The young clerk knew it was a lie when he’d continuously be late to dinner and anger his brother and cousin, all because of shady labor tactics.

Tonight, however, he knew he’d hear an earful from James. Knew Peter would be desperate to have the boys home safe and not wandering around the island. It was an impossible situation, lamented Alexander, trying to please all parties who were antithetical in their needs.

He reached the street where he lived, dodging three alley cats who hissed at him suspiciously, a sleeping drunk muttering about the book of Revelation, and a pile of refuse so nauseating Alexander covered his mouth and nearly retched. He stopped in his tracks as he came upon his brother outside. Stepping closer, he heard James sob.

“How can this be?”

“Stand aside, man! Let me through,” Alexander saw a short, fat man push past James, who covered his mouth and sobbed again. He picked up his pace and rushed to his brother.

“What is going on?”

James could not articulate himself, and Alexander smelled the unmistakable stench of cheap liquor. The older brother swayed and collapsed onto his knees. Alexander knelt beside him, shaking him.

“James! Talk to me!”

In the next instant, the sound of a wooden cart rattled against the floor inside the house and Alexander craned his neck to get a glimpse. It was his cousin.

He was still only vaguely aware of his brother’s drunken cries beside him--and the small crowd of neighbors who’d awoken to see what the commotion was about. A woman shrieked, and several dogs barked, sensing danger. Alexander felt himself drunk, felt the world move in slow motion, as he watched the corpse of his cousin be dragged into the street. The short fat man huffed as he pulled the cart behind him.

“Stand aside, I say! You all, go back into your houses. This is not some play for you all to gawk at.” He huffed once more, and dropped the wooden cart, unceremoniously. He looked around, and locked eyes with Alexander, who only then realized his mouth was hanging open dumbly.

“You, boy,” the fat man, who revealed himself to be a coroner, pointed a chubby finger at Alexander, “You knew this man?”

Alexander blinked silently, closing his mouth. The coroner rolled his eyes impatiently.

“I said, did you know this man?”

The young clerk could hear nothing but his brother’s sobs, which had turned into silent heaving. Finally, he found his voice.

“Yes. He is my cousin.”

The coroner grunted, “ _ Was _ . I am sorry to bear this tragic news, but he has ended his life, God save him, on this night. Are you his next of kin?”

Alexander nodded mutely.

“Fine.”

He was handed several small papers, and the coroner adjusted his gloves, still business-like and brusque.

“Depending on who you ask, it is fortunate there was no foul-play from some scoundrel. This is a dangerous area.”

Another deep, distressed heave from James brought Alexander back down to earth. The coroner looked at the two brothers one last time, lingering on each for just a moment, the tiniest hint of pity alight in his eyes. He nodded one last time, and lifted the cart to roll it away, not glancing back. Alexander swayed with lightheadedness.

“No, Smith, just some drunks.” The coroner’s voice echoed from down the street.

He could not find the energy to cry--at least not yet. He heard James’ sobs echo off the sides of buildings, the last handful of onlookers retreating into their houses. He truly did feel like the center of a play, his brain said stupidly, at this moment on a stage. He half expected an applause. The wind picked up and rustled the papers in his hands-- a clerk’s bill for the disposal of the body.


	5. Luck

It was the four of them-- Samuel, William Paterson, Matt and Aaron-- who made a habit of visiting the Hudibras tavern every weekend. Just as Matt predicted, the tavern keep objected at the sight of the younger boy. 

The first few times they went, they managed to avoid his gaze. On the fourth weekend, however, they were caught. 

“What in God’s name is this child doing in my tavern?” Hyer yelled above the din, pointing at Aaron. After two glasses of wine, Aaron was already drunk, and instead of shying away from the attention, he relished in it. 

“I am an elf. I am actually five-hundred years old,” he said, standing. The patrons laughed. Hyer, the owner, was not amused. 

“Where are your bloody parents?”

Aaron made a face, wiped a fake tear: “Dead, sir.”

The room erupted into laughter again, and Aaron felt reckless. He watched Hyer turn red, shaking his head and turning back to the bar. Pointing at Aaron, he responded, “I won’t have some little bastard causing a ruckus in my tavern, got it?”

“He’s a paying customer, Hyer,” Samuel reasoned loudly. “You should treat him with more respect.”

“What if I bought everyone a drink, would  _ that _ make you happy?” Aaron said loudly. Several men cheered. The teenager made his way to the bar, and placed the payment on the counter, looking at Hyer. The old man eyed the money hungrily, deciding internally whether it was worth it to accept the bribe or stand by his principles. 

Another second, and Hyer made up his mind. He grumbled his assent and began pouring more rounds. This, realized Aaron, ingratiated him with nearly twenty people instantaneously. 

It became easier and easier to make a habit out of visiting the tavern.

It was a wet summer evening when Matt pulled him aside during one night’s particularly rowdy revelry. Aaron felt his cousin grab his arm, though his extremities were numb with drunkenness. Matt pulled a letter from his vest, and showed Aaron. The words blurred on the page, and Aaron could not focus his eyes. 

“What is this?”

“Uncle Timothy,” Matt replied, “He’s going to be in Elizabethtown tomorrow. He wants to see you. He said he sent you a letter one month ago, and never received a response. So he sent one to me.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, “You’re ruining my evening.”

“He says he wants to bring you home, Aaron,” Matt reasoned. “He’s sick of you ignoring his letters.”

“Well  _ I’m _ sick of  _ him _ being no fun.”

Matt shook his head, “He sounds serious. I don’t think he’d bluff.”

“He can’t force me to leave.”

“No, but he can take all your money,” Matt crossed his arms. Aaron felt impervious to the threat. He pushed past his cousin and made his way back to the crowded table. Matt watched for a moment, then folded the letter back into his pocket, and followed. 

Aaron assumed that would be the last of it. His mind soon travelled back to his new friends, laughing and having a pleasant evening on his dime, and it made him swell with happiness. He spent the next few hours trying, and failing, to remember everyone’s name. He didn’t remember what time he made it back to his dorm, Matt close on his heels. But the minute he hit his mattress, he fell asleep.

He awoke the next morning to the sharp rapping of a knuckle against his door. 

“Aaron Burr, open the door this instant.”

The teenager rubbed his eyes, adjusting them to the midday sunlight that streamed in through the curtains. He groggily reached for a pocket watch that sat on the nightstand next to his bed and squinted at the time. Nearly eleven-- Aaron’s heart leapt. 

Another bout of knocking, “Aaron Burr! This is your uncle! Open this door!”

Aaron sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, and he was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea. He swayed, and grabbed a small waste can, retching into it. 

The room spun as he tried to sit up straight; The sunlight made his head pound. 

Another loud slam against the door, and the knob shook while Timothy Edwards called his name. 

“I am  _ coming _ , Uncle,” Aaron managed, putting a hand to his head. 

No sooner had the teenager opened the door, then his uncle came barging in. Timothy Edwards took inventory of his nephew’s room, “What on earth is going on? You were to meet me in town two hours ago.”

He made a face, caught off guard. 

“What is that  _ smell _ ?”

Aaron motioned sheepishly to the waste can, “I was sick.”

Timothy responded, “Too much drink! What is going on here? Where is Matthew? Why are you laying about all day?”

The uncle marched past Aaron, forcing the curtains open. The bright sunlight caused Aaron to sway, and he steadied himself again by placing a hand on his headboard. 

“This room is a disgrace.”

“Is there something you need, Uncle?” Aaron replied snidely.

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” Timothy pointed a finger at him. “Why haven’t you been answering my letters?”

“I was studying.”

“Oh, so you think I am stupid, then?”

“Please, I am sorry. I forgot.” Aaron tried to raise his gaze to look at his guardian but was overcome with dizziness again. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Timothy put hands on his hips, “You are to come with me into town, this instant. I told you to meet me in Elizabethtown in my last letter, and again in a letter to Matthew, and you have ignored both requests. For what? What is more important than your family?”

Aaron could not answer, merely shrugging. 

“Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Timothy took one last look around the room, and left in a flurry of muttered curses, asking God why he’d stained the family with such a wretch. Aaron rolled his eyes-- the same old tune. He shut his door and locked it and tried to remember the evening. 

He walked over to the mirror, grabbing his day clothes and dressing as quick as he could while the room still spun. It had to be the drink, the teenager reasoned. Last night he’d had more than he ever did in his life, and his body revolted. He examined himself and ran a hand through his hair to flatten it. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher by his bed and drank it thirstily. 

In the next minute, Aaron was outside, walking towards his uncle, who stood wearing his requisite scowl. 

“Do you  _ ever _ smile, Uncle?” Aaron asked 

Timothy ignored him, and the pair walked in silence until they came to the tavern Aaron reveled in the night before. The sight and smell of it almost made him retch again. Timothy shot him a look, as if to say,  _ I know what you’ve been doing. _

Once inside, the pair was greeted by the family friend, Reverend Knox, who stood and smiled warmly. Timothy shook his hand, lips pursed. He put his hand on his nephew’s back.

“Aaron, you remember your father’s friend, the good Reverend Knox,” Timothy said.

Aaron reached out and shook the older man’s warm hand. To his surprise, Knox laughed. 

“My god, how you look like him! Miniature Aaron. Little Burr!” 

The reverend motioned for the pair to sit. Timothy took the seat next to Knox, which left Aaron on a side all by himself. He immediately felt defensive. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. 

“Why am I here, Reverend? Have I done something wrong?” Aaron began. 

A servant came up to the table, offering them water.

“May I have your strongest black tea?” Aarons asked politely. His uncle shook his head and held up a hand. 

“No, too bloody expensive. He’ll be fine with water. Thank you.”

The teenager sunk back into his seat, head pounding. Knox cut in. 

“I was desirous to see you again, Aaron. Your uncle told me about your studies at the College. Top marks last year, correct?”

“Yes. I overestimated how hard I would have to work.”

“There is that arrogance. I told you, Reverend, he needs--”

Knox cut Timothy off with a low chuckle, “--Nonsense. He sounds exactly like his father. And mother, frankly.”

“I wasn’t trying to be arrogant, Reverend. But the college entered me as a sophomore, when I should have been a junior. The curriculum is easy at this level.”

“You feel you are not being challenged, I take it?” Knox replied.

“No. Not at all. At first I admit I was nervous. But the final exams have proven that I am levels beyond what is being taught. I promise, this is not arrogance, but fact.” Aaron took a sip of his water. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle’s inscrutable gaze. 

The reverend grunted in thought. Then, “It is the desire of myself, and your good uncle, that you perhaps follow in your father and grandfather’s footsteps, and take up religious studies. Perhaps that will provide you with the mental challenge you seek.”

Aaron looked at the reverend for a moment, then, “An interesting proposition. I will take it into consideration.”

Timothy interrupted, “This is not a request, Aaron. This is a demand.”

The teenager looked at his uncle, then back at the kind face of Knox, who said, “I promise you, it will be rewarding. I will see to it myself. I will tutor you, like your father tutored me. I am certain it is what he would want.”

Aaron wasn’t sure if it was his headache, or tiredness, or a combination of the two, but something clicked inside him.

“I don’t care what he would want. He is  _ dead _ . He has no more say over me than this table.”

“You little--” Timothy started. Knox cut him off.

“Aaron, I know things have not been easy for you,” he said softly, “I know you have felt...  _ adrift _ ... at school. I think this will give you something to work towards.”

The teenager looked down at the woodgrain of the table, making shapes in his mind, letting the reverend’s words sink in. They were the words he’d knew he’d have to hear eventually, locking him into his fate as just one more in a long line of succession he didn’t ask for. 

“I do not want to leave the college, Reverend. I have friends, I like it there.”

“He likes it too much,” Timothy said, finally able to get a word in. “Reports of him spending money recklessly, traipsing around town at all hours, ignoring his studies-- does this sound to you like the mind of a serious student? The seminary will whip him into shape, and I say the sooner the better.”

Reverend Knox looked at Timothy, “I have found that when clergymen come to God on their own terms, rather than another person’s, they are more ardent in their beliefs. Perhaps Aaron should finish his studies at college, and afterwards begin his religious studies.”

The two older men kept talking as if he wasn’t there.

“Regardless of how he comes to the Lord, he will have to make His acquaintance sooner or later because this cannot go on.”

“Have you spoken to Mr. Bellamy? I believe he expressed interest in Aaron studying with his son.”

Aaron let their voices fade into the background, his head still throbbing. He stared out the window at a group of students, male and female, making their way through the small town, laughing together. He remembered bits and pieces of the night before, and thought about ways to circumvent his uncle’s wishes.

“The Bellamys are strict,” Timothy said, “there will be none of this drinking at all hours, ignoring duties. I would like him to make his acquaintance as soon as possible.”

“I will of course see what I can do. I can send a letter to Bethlehem tonight, but I cannot say when it will be delivered.”

“And you are certain Bellamy will have him? Does he know what he’s getting into?”

Knox’s soft chiding, “Timothy, come now, perhaps you are being just a bit harsh.”

Aaron felt his uncle tap his arm roughly, “Do you hear me? Are you listening?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Repeat to me what was just said.”

Aaron sighed, head pounding, “Knox will write to Dr Bellamy and I am to study with his son.”

Knox cut in, “See, Timothy? He is not hopeless!”

**** 

Alexander tossed and turned on his small bed, back aching at the ill-stuffed mattress and flat pillow. The night-time noises in the dirty street outside his bedroom drifted in and out of his mind: women laughing and screaming, men fighting, dogs barking, infernal seabird shrieking for no reason. His face glistened with sweat in the wet night air, the tiny hum of mosquitoes buzzing threateningly around him. He waved his hand in front of his face and turned on his back.

In the adjacent room he heard his brother shout something-- probably about money, probably about decency-- and made shapes of the cracks in the ceiling he stared at.

Alexander condemned the ephemeral state of his friends and loved ones.  _ Condemn _ seemed to be his favorite word lately. He rubbed his eyes and internally recited the last letter he’d sent to his friend.

_ Ned, my ambition is prevalent that I condemn the groveling and condition of a Clerk or the like, to which my Fortune condemns me and would willingly risk my life-- though not my Character-- to exalt my Station.  _

Tomorrow he would wake up to see the haggard face of Mr. Stevens eye him as he searched for breakfast in their kitchen. He didn’t care what Alexander did, as long as he made himself useful.

“I cannot support you and your brother if you plan on being nothing but layabouts,” Thomas Stevens said to him one afternoon, kindly but sternly, when Alexander had been skulking in the tiny kitchen. A rat darted along the floor against the wall. Alexander watched it squeeze its way into a crack and disappear. 

“Are you paying attention to me, Alex?” Thomas Stevens tried to catch his gaze, waved his hand. 

Alexander locked eyes with Thomas, “There is no good work on this island. I hate it here.”

At that moment, James walked in, stinking of sweat and wood shavings. Thomas wore a look of exasperation at the two orphans.

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying not to imagine the monotony that would settle on him like a blanket, blocking out any bright future. He tried to think of ways to improve his lot. He would be vocal; he would have a voice in the clerkship. 

_ I am confident, Ned, that my Youth excludes me from any hopes of immediate Preferment-- nor do I desire it, but I mean to prepare the way for futurity. _

He was not stupid enough to think that an orphan with no formal education would be given any kind of special treatment from Cruger. Nor desperately hopeful like Peter once was, vacillating between despair and anxiety at having to provide for two useless wards. Alexander settled into a new position and closed his eyes.

“I can’t die here like she did.” 

Another bawdy shout from outside his room, and Alexander couldn’t tell if it was a stranger at the tavern across the street or his own brother, who’d taken to spending his entire week’s earnings on ale and women. 

_ I am no Philosopher you see and may be justly said to build castles in the air. _

This was the part that hurt the most. The words that, as he wrote them, made a lump in his throat and the paper hard to read through his blurring gaze. To dream was one thing; to do was another. Alexander, once again, found himself closing his eyes as tears welled up in them, shutting out the noise around him, thanking God that his tiny bedroom had a lock on the door. 

_ My Folly makes me ashamed and I beg you'll Conceal it, yet Neddy we have seen such Schemes successful when the Projector is Constant.  _

He could see Ned reading the letter and understanding him. He left his friend with some hope that all was not lost, yet Alexander knew differently in his own heart. He anticipated what he knew Ned would say to him -- stay positive. stay constant, Alex-- but it all seemed so ridiculous and insultingly far-fetched.

“I don’t want to be patronized.” 

A mosquito flew near his opened mouth and Alexander coughed, swearing, spitting it out. He sat up in bed and ground his teeth. There would need to be  _ efforts _ , outside interference, if he were to leave the blasted island. An almighty uprising. It was infernally hot, and a voice told him he was in hell. 

Two drunkards began brawling in the street outside his window; lightning split the sky and the wind began to howl.

_ I shall Conclude saying, I wish there was a War. _

****

The meeting between Aaron, his uncle and Reverend Knox replayed in his mind almost daily, as he went about his studies half-heartedly. Rather than give him something to work for, the idea of the seminary made him feel sluggish and bored. 

He missed a few classes, preferring to sleep. When no one dared chastise him, he grew at once both resentful and bold. 

He wandered the campus whenever he felt like it-- showing up to exams, getting perfect marks, and leaving again, earning the ire of other students and professors alike. 

“You come and go as you please, don’t you,” Paterson remarked one day with a handsome smile. Aaron mimicked it. The two sat in his office late in the afternoon, pouring over books at their leisure. 

“Is it my fault? God gifted me, I suppose,” the teenager replied. “All of my professors hate me, so everything comes at a price.”

Paterson laughed again. Aaron felt mature. 

“What has been occupying your mind, then, while you laze about?”

“Romance novels.” The teenager joked. He watched Paterson laugh again. 

“Shame the school is only filled with boys then, eh? I suspect you’re suffering from a  _ certain _ lack of companionship. When I was your age, I had female friends to keep me occupied.”

Aaron felt his heart leap-- and suddenly felt embarrassed.

As if reading his mind, Paterson continued, “No need to feel embarrassed. I know what goes through a young man’s mind. If it makes you feel any better, my first encounter with a member of the female sex left me so humiliated I couldn’t speak to anyone for a week. How is  _ that _ for education?”

“I am sorry for your humiliation,” Aaron laughed, feeling at ease once more. The pair was silent for a moment, the teenager watching the older man scrawl notes in his book. He continued, “I’ve met with girls. Lots of them. At the tavern.”

Paterson looked up, chuckling, “Those aren’t the girls you’ll want to make a habit of meeting, trust me.”

“Why not? They seem nice. They always talk to me.”

“They think you are a child.”

Aaron kicked him under the table. Paterson leaned back, laughing.

“You don’t want to concern yourself with tavern girls. Let me just say-- they are paid to provide services to lonely old men who cannot find women otherwise. Not handsome young students.”

Aaron felt his stomach leap again, catching Paterson’s eye. 

“There are other ways to satiate yourself besides paying for women.”

“Yes, I know,” Aaron responded, feeling warm. He looked down at his notes, picked up a pen, and continued his writing where he left off. He felt Paterson’s gaze, and wished he hadn’t brought it up in the first place. He felt young-- inexperienced, and stupid. 

“If you ever need advice, you know where to find me,” Paterson remarked, picking up his own quill, not taking his eyes off his books. 

Aaron awoke that night from a frightful dream, in which his uncle appeared, admonishing him for distracting himself with girls and parties. He sat up straight in bed, panicking, until he realized it was all a nightmare. Unable to sleep, he got out of bed, dressed, and snuck out past his sleeping cousin. He wandered the campus grounds until the sun began to rise and, upon hearing the morning bells, made his way to the chapel. 

Aaron never prayed more fervently than at that service, when the pastor’s sermon was about temptation, and ignoring one’s duties. He sat frozen in his seat, avoiding the gaze of the pastor, and stayed in place until every other congregant had left. 

Alexander chewed a hangnail, wincing as he peeled it back with his teeth, and away from the cuticle. He balled his fist against the pain, stretched out his fingers, looking down at them. Rough calluses formed on the inside of his right middle finger, where the quill rubbed it when he wrote. He looked at it for a minute--his cuticle pooling with a small amount of blood. He wiped his finger off on his breeches, then picked up the quill again.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the loud clang of a bell outside, signaling that another ship full of cargo had come into the harbor. In the next minute, he heard the shouts of the men down at the dock, some gruff, some shrill, and it set his nerves on edge. 

He began to gather his thoughts for the day’s work--the clock read seven--twenty past, his brain reminded him--and at that moment he felt the door to the tiny office creak open. He ignored the noise, hoping to nonverbally convey that he was in no mood to talk.

“Hamilton--” he heard Cruger begin timidly.

He had been thus since the younger clerk had returned to work after Peter’s death--still ghostly pale and mute and shaken. Cruger’s bluff demeanor had changed as well over the ensuing months and he handled Alexander like fine china. He began to go days without uttering a single word to him. He was ever diligent in his work, and, he thought mirthlessly, an even harder worker.

Alexander shifted the papers in front of him, so his current writing was obscured. 

“Hamilton, I do apologize for disturbing you…”

Hamilton turned in his seat, still quiet, and looked at his boss.

Cruger had taken to wearing a look of pained pity on his face every time he confronted the younger clerk. Alexander supposed it was how Cruger felt he was meant to act, rather than any sort of like-minded empathy from a place of like-experience. Bitterly, Hamilton reminded himself Cruger had never been severed so bluntly—so continuously-- from human kindness as he had. His finger throbbed.

Cruger wrung his hands, and then, “I was hoping to have today’s report by nightfall.”

Finally, Alexander spoke. “It is winter. Night comes quicker. May I have until eight-thirty?”

“Yes, yes of course,” Cruger responded quickly. “I do not doubt your talents.” The older man offered a sympathetic smile again, nodded briefly, and backed out of the room. In the next minute, he stopped and turned. 

“You must join me for dinner. I feel it might help…” Cruger trailed off, searching for words. 

“I am in no mood,” Alexander replied bluntly. 

The elder man was not dissuaded, “It is Reverend Knox.”

Alexander pretended to study a number on the page in front of him while Cruger continued quietly. 

“He has asked about you, worries for your safety and soul after your ordeal with your cousin.”

“And what does he care?”

Cruger grew silent, leaned on the frame, “Alexander, I know we are not bosom-companions, but I am trying to help.”

He knew the older man was just trying to be kind, but he resented being treated with kid-gloves. The younger clerk came to work, did what was asked of him, then went home silently. It was rote, safe. As comfortable as a well-fitted coffin.

The barbed words left Alexander’s mouth before he could think, “Tell the good Reverend he might help by paying off my father’s debts and giving me my mother’s property so that I might survive in this wretched world, instead of useless books.”

Cruger closed his eyes and sighed, “Please, Alexander. I have explained to him that I think highly of your talents, and he wants to see you--”

“--So that he might explain why my cousin killed himself rather than take care of me?”

Cruger rubbed his head, “Alexander, I know you have been treated unfairly, but please--he only wants to help any way he can.”

The young clerk balled his fist again, the bloodied hangnail shooting pain through his finger. The pair were quiet, and Alexander could tell that Cruger had more to say. He waited. 

“I also came to tell you that I will be travelling to New York in a few days. I am not feeling well, and the doctors there…” He trailed off, looking at the teenager. 

“The doctors in New York are miles ahead of the quacks here.” Alexander finished.

“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but yes.”

“So I am to be left alone, then.” Alexander still stared at his fingers, letting the information sink in. Cruger walked over to him, and put a hand on his papers.

“You have impressed me and Mr. Beekman beyond what we could have ever expected. You are diligent, trustworthy, intelligent-- you are everything we need to keep the shop running smoothly. I have full faith in you.”

“And what if I do not want to be left alone with all of this?” Alexander replied, angrily. He indicated to the bookshelves filled with papers. Cruger’s demeanor darkened. 

“It is your  _ job.  _ It is your  _ duty _ .” The older man crossed his arms. “I will leave you with a list of the daily tasks, along with the shipments I am expecting for the next eight weeks. You already do everything I do. This will just be more of the same.”

Alexander looked up at his boss, who wore the same look of pity again.

More of the same. And so it was. 

The miserable November winds cut through the shop cruelly in the days following Cruger’s announcement that he’d be leaving. The shipments came and went, and Alexander was there to greet them every time. Each time he walked down to the docks, he prepared to be greeted with disbelief, or jeers, that one so young an inexperienced could run a clerkship all by himself. He steadied his pride against their judgmental eyes; thickened skin.

He marched down to the docks, eyeing a sloop that had just come in, creaking and old, rocking in the water. He swatted a fly from his face, approaching the captain.

“Are you here for Beekman & Cruger’s, then?”

The sailor eyed him, “Don’t tell me you’re his boy.”

Alexander stiffened, “I am.”

“Christ preserve us…” several of his shipmates laughed.

“I assure you, I am qualified.” Alexander replied, voice cracking embarrassingly. The sailors let out another chorus of laughter, and he burned, He looked at his notes, “You are the Thunderbolt, yes?”

The captain made a sarcastic gesture toward the name that had been emblazoned in large, white letters on the side of the ship. Alexander felt stupid. 

“Very well. I see. Thank you...Captain Jones,” Alexander crossed a name off his list. “It says here you are due to deliver...Indian meal, staves, apples, one and one-half inch boards, bread and onions…? How many staves?”

“Sixty-five hundred,” Captain Jones replied, pulled a knife from his belt and digging at a bit of dirt from beneath his fingernail. Alexander watched him, disgusted. 

“And you are delivering apples, onions and bread, too?”

“Yeah.”

“...Are they clean? Have they been stored properly? These things spoil easily.”

Captain Jones moved out of the way, dramatically, “Well go and have a look for yourself,  _ boss _ .”

Alexander took a deep breath and made his way onto the ship, walking below deck and eyeing the cargo. He skirted a dead rat and what appeared to be a pile of fish bones, lifting each barrel and examining it. Everything was there; he kicked the pile of building materials, eyes darting up and down the piles of staves. He frowned, took a second, and walked over to them. He paused, then made a mark on his clip board. 

He made his way back up to the top deck, down the plank, and back to where the captain stood. 

“You said there were 6500 staves. It looks to be thirty short.”

Captain Jones sputtered, laughing, “You are delirious. There is no way you counted them that fast.”

Alexander straightened his back, “I did.”

“Bullshit.”

Alexander lowered his gaze. 

_ No, you are in charge, now. _

He locked eyes with the captain, “I can tell by looking at the bundles. You are shorting us.”

Captain Jones rolled his eyes, slipped his knife back in the holster. He glared at the teenager, “And what are you going to do about it?”

“I will stand here until they are counted, and then I will make an exact mark in my log, for Mr. Cruger,” Alexander replied, sounding braver than he felt. 

The captain stepped forward, furious, “You want us to count 6500 staves?”

Alexander stood his ground, “I want you to count six thousand, four hundred and seventy staves. I will not give you leave to move forward to Curacao until then.”

Captain Jones’ eyes flashed dangerously, internally debating whether it was worth it to argue with the teenager. He touched the knife on his belt, and growled, turning on his heel and making his way back to the ship. Alexander’s eyes followed the older man, defiant. 

He watched as the captain disappeared below deck, and then ran back to the office to dash off a quick letter, recording everything he’d seen.

****

For a moment, the only sound was the clinking of forks against plates, the slurping of wine, and the silent chewing of food. Aaron stared into his carrots, mixing them into his gravy, swirling them disinterested. 

At the head of the table sat the Reverend Knox, visiting their college as a guest speaker. Aaron spent the first half of the dinner avoiding his gaze, praying silently he wouldn’t bring up the conversation with his uncle. He liked his warm, friendly presence--though, at times, he decided, he could be a bit overbearing. 

“Not hungry, Little Burr?” Knox called, drawing all eyes onto the teenager. Several students snickered. “What is so funny?”

Aaron felt his stomach drop. His plan had failed. 

“He passed out in class yesterday. I’ve never seen him eat,” one of the students remarked. Aaron shot him a look. 

“If you would try my plan of abstinence, maybe you wouldn’t have failed last week’s test,” Aaron responded.

“You talk to  _ me  _ about abstinence? You’re the one hanging around tavern girls all night,” the student responded, laughing. 

“Temper, _ temper. _ ” Another student mocked.

The Reverend cleared his throat at the head of the table, “Please, gentlemen, this is inappropriate dinner conversation. I am only in Princeton for a few days. I do not wish to spend my time making fun of one another. Tell me about your classes.”

Knox addressed the entire table, and several students spoke up, telling him about their future plans, professors they liked and didn’t like, trips they’d like to take and potential careers. Aaron put a single piece of carrot into his mouth, swallowing it whole, as the lump made its way down his throat. He tuned out, letting the voices of his peers create a steady din around him. 

The Reverend looked at each student in turn, nodding and responding to their questions and stories. Aaron liked when Knox visited, and thought it was a nice touch that the College allowed its students some religious guidance from time to time. It felt familial-- Aaron assumed that was what the Reverend was going for --the roaring fire cracking behind him. 

“And you, Aaron?” Knox finally got around to him, “What are your plans once your graduate? Have you thought about our conversation several weeks ago?”

Aaron placed his fork down, “I have decided will study with Dr. Bellamy, in Connecticut.”

“Ah! I knew you would come around. You will do marvelously. You have an aptitude for the religious life,” Reverend Knox replied, winking. Several students snickered. 

“Yes, it would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Aaron asked. His words felt hollow. “May I be excused? I am not feeling well.”

Knox’s smile faded slightly, and he nodded, raising a hand towards the door, “Of course, Little Burr.”

The teenager stood and put his jacket on, leaving the room without looking back. 

He made his way down the corridor as the noise, warmth and smells disappeared behind him, He knew Knox did not mean to single him out, he’d asked all the students the same questions. He knew the Reverend meant well, and was trying to foster camaraderie amongst the boys, Aaron tried to place the swelling feeling of embarrassment inside of him, and couldn’t. He pulled his collar up high, hiding his face, and left the grounds of the school.

Once the town center was in sight, he let his guard down a bit. 

He waved to several men standing in a circle, talking outside the general store, the tavern’s warm yellow glow behind them. 

He walked into the tavern, and was greeted by calls and smiles from the townsfolk. Even Hyer, usually eyeing him with barely concealed annoyance, produced a small, thin-lipped grin when he saw the teenager. 

“Ahh-- I was wondering when you’d come back. Right on time, too. Eight pm, Friday. Did you bring your friends?” Hyer asked hopefully, looking around. 

“No, I’m afraid it’s just me.”

The tavern keep looked disappointed, “Well. As long as you buy enough to justify you being here.”

“What if I bought rounds for everyone, right now?” The teenager smiled. Hyer’s grin returned. 

“ _ There’s _ my favorite customer,” He made his way back to the counter, and began filling several glasses and tankards. Some of the patrons cheered, and called Aaron’s name in thanks, and the teenager smiled even more broadly.

_ Vastly more interesting than whatever Knox is talking about _ , Aaron thought. He felt a presence behind him; a woman of about twenty slipped her arm around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. 

“Just wanted to thank you. Aaron, is it?” She cooed. The teenager blushed, and swayed.

“Yes. And you’re welcome,” he managed. The woman kissed his other cheek, and grabbed his hand. She let it drop as she walked away, and Aaron’s eyes followed her. 

Aaron passed an hour drinking until the room spun, marveling at how happy everyone was. The woman who kissed him sat with her friends, and stole a glance at him occasionally, making him feel brave. The teenager finished his third drink-- swallowed his nerves, and began to get up to talk to her. 

“Little Burr.” He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Aaron turned to see the disapproving face of Knox looking down at him.

“Reverend--” Aaron slurred. “I didn’t… How did you--”

“--There are  _ three _ buildings in this town. It was not hard.” Knox removed his hand from the boy’s shoulder, took the empty tankard from him and placed it on the table, and crossed his arms. “What are you doing here?”

Aaron looked from the reverend, to the empty glass, and back to Knox, silent. The words formed an inarticulate soup inside his mind, and he could only manage a shrug. 

“Let us go outside. The cold air will sober you up,” Knox placed a hand on Aaron’s back, and led him out to the street, where the night air made Aaron’s eye’s water. He stared at the ground, watching it spin. He’d moved too fast. He held out a hand for Knox to stand back, using the other to steady himself against a barrel nearby. In the next second, he threw up into it. 

“See? That is what you get, Little Burr,” Knox called out, not unkindly. He watched the teenager sheepishly make his way back over, rubbing his eyes and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. 

“You need food. Alcohol produces disastrous effects on an empty stomach,” Knox pulled out a few slices of chewy bread, “Here. Please eat this.”

Aaron accepted it wordlessly.

“Better?” The reverend asked. Aaron nodded.

“You seemed so determined to leave the dinner tonight, I had assumed it was for something a bit more academic,” Knox said wryly. “Though I do commend your valiant efforts to keep an old curmudgeon like Hyer in business. I suppose that is in a way admirable.”

At this, the teenager laughed, spitting some breadcrumbs out.

Knox looked at Aaron, and then, “Are you up for a walk, Little Burr?”

Aaron swallowed, “Yes. I think that would do me some good.”

The older man cocked his head, beckoning for the teenager to follow him, “There is no problem a good walk cannot help solve. Loosens the brain, I always say.”

Aaron wordlessly followed the older man, chewing on the last pieces of the bread. He felt more alert, but at the expense of his nerves. 

“Please...don’t tell my uncle about this,” Aaron began softly. The crunch of their feet against the stones and leaves filled the air. Knox was quiet for a full minute.

“I suspect he already knows exactly what you get up to,” The reverend replied. 

“He can’t know. If he did, he’d bring me home and lock me away forever.”

Knox smiled, “If you know your behavior is wrong, why continue?”

The pair quietly made their way along the street, behind the tavern, and back past the talking group of men Aaron had passed on his way in. They looked at him with a new pity in their eyes, and Aaron tried to avoid their gaze. 

“It seems to me you are suffering from lack of challenge,” Knox said after a few seconds. “It is plain to see the coursework does not keep you occupied as it does the others. That is something Uncle Timothy has failed to see.”

Aaron inhaled, then sighed, “He thinks I am arrogant.”

“Yes, I know. He does not understand that ambition often begets arrogance.” Knox said. “If you harness it in a positive way, you will do well with Dr. Bellamy.”

“Yes. That must be it. Perhaps there is where I will find my challenge.”

Knox nodded, “There are certainly challenges to be had in the scriptures.”

Aaron thought about his classes, and the dull professors who looked at him as though they’d known him forever, and the students who used him for a good time. He saw Paterson’s face looming large in his mind, talking to him as if he were a grown man, and it made him bold. 

“I hate it here.” The words left the teenager’s mouth before he could stop them. 

The reverend looked at Aaron, his expression inscrutable. Aaron kicked a stone angrily, frustrated that he’d let his temper show. Despite his best efforts, he continued.

“I feel as though my life has been planned out. I will live and die in the same town,” Aaron threw a hand up, indicated around him aimlessly. “I feel as though there is nothing to be excited about.” 

Knox put his hands in his pockets, ‘Now, that is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

The teenager shrugged, unhelpful.

The reverend pressed on.

“There are many in this world who do not have what you have, Little Burr. Many young people who would give anything to have the resources you do, the friends you do-- the stamina you do! You should consider yourself--”

“--I am not lucky.” Aaron stopped walking. He stood in front of Knox, glaring up at him, feeling his throat tighten painfully. “I am sick to death of people telling me how  _ lucky _ I am. Was I lucky when Providence decided it its infinite wisdom to steal my parents from me and my sister before we could even know their faces? How about my grandparents? Now I am left here with these wretched ghosts directing my every move.”

Knox responded, “Is it  _ better  _ to know them, and have them stolen from you? Or is it better to leave them as strangers?”

The teenagers shoved his hands into his pockets angrily, looking away, “I don’t care.”

“Little Burr, look at me. You do care.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t care about any of them, and I don’t care about this stupid town or school. I would go live in the woods like a bear.”

Knox laughed gently, “You would be a sight. Do you even know how to set up camp?”

“I will join the infantry and learn, then.”

“They will have you as a cook or a page, not a soldier,” Knox replied, the twinkle still in his eye. 

Aaron began to walk, and Knox followed him. They were quiet again, listening to the night sounds. A squirrel rustling in the trees, an owl hooting. The teenager mulled over his options, feeling dull and bored once again. 

After another minute, he spoke, “I suppose you are right.”

“About?”

“I should be grateful.”

Knox put an arm around the boy as they rounded a corner. Suddenly, the university was in view, looming on the horizon. Aaron watched it get bigger and bigger as the pair approached. He realized how cold and hungry he’d become since his sickness in front of the tavern. 

“You know you may always write to me, and I will listen,” Knox said softly. “I am travelling back to St. Croix tomorrow, but I will endeavor to keep a correspondence, if you need a friendly ear.”

“St. Croix?”

The reverend nodded, “Yes. It seems I am to split my time less and less evenly between my beloved New Jersey, and St. Croix. Eventually they would like me to stay there permanently. I have a few things to wrap up here, naturally, so for the time being, I am travelling back and forth like a proper sailor.”

Aaron felt a painful swell in his chest-- jealousy.

“Is there any way you could take me with you? Perhaps I could study with you, instead of Dr. Bellamy?”

“I am afraid your uncle would see me hanged if I were to steal you away,” Knox chuckled. “There are more opportunities for a bright mind here than there are on St. Croix.”


	6. Distant

Cruger was right, Alexander thought to himself two weeks after the older man had left the island-- nothing had changed. The teenager still worked from dawn until dusk, still argued with sailors and merchants about their poor products, still haggled with men three times his age. It made him feel tired and aged. He tried to get into a routine. 

For breakfast: one apple. For a mid-morning snack, some bread and cheese. Lunch was usually provided by the kindly old woman in the general store a few doors down, who took pity on Alexander. She was forgetful and he had to remind her of his story every couple of days-- at which point the expression on her old face would fall and she would offer him free food. 

Dinner was late, after he’d get home-- he would scrounge up whatever Thomas and James hadn’t eaten, which usually wasn’t much. The sailors mocked how tiny he was, and it embarrassed him-- but there was nothing to be done about it. 

On the thirteenth day of running Cruger’s by himself, he heard the telltale signs of a shipment. He finished the last bites of his bread, grabbed his quill and parchment, and something to lean on to write, and made his way down to the docks. 

“Where’s Cruger?” The gruff sailor barked at him before a greeting. Alexander balked.

“He is ill, in New York. I am his associate, Alexander Hamilton. I am taking over for him for the time being.”

The gruff sailor cleared his throat and spat. Alexander made a face, and positioned his quill, ready to write. 

“What shipment is this? I do not have anything on the books for another two days. Can I have your name, please?”

“Collins,” he grumbled, eyeing the teenager. “So, Cruger left his work to a little boy, eh?”

“I am sixteen,” Alexander replied, not looking up from his notes. “Collins...Collins...Are you captain of the _ St. Catherine _ ?”

“What the bloody hell does it look like?”

“Great.”

“Can I unload the bitch or not?” Collins asked. Behind him, his men meandered aimlessly, looking annoyed at the delay. 

Alexander looked at him, then back at the ship. It was old-- the dark, water-logged wood stank like mold and seawater. It rocked back and forth, showing a barnacle-encrusted underside. Chips and cuts decorated its sides, and a long scrape on the stern told Alexander that it had been in some kind of collision. 

“You’re listed in his inventory, but I don’t have any notes. You weren’t due until Cruger returns.” 

Collins stepped closer to the teenager, “Well I’m not gonna bloody go back. Take the inventory and be done with it. The soon I drop off this shipment the sooner I can turn around and head back to Africa.”

Alexander stopped writing, alarmed, “You’re telling me this is a  _ slave _ ship?”

The sailor rolled his eyes, “Jesus Christ. Did Cruger tell you anything? Yes, this is a slave ship. The  _ St. Catherine. _ We’ve been making the rounds for six months. This is our third time here. Get out of the way and let me talk to an adult.”

Alexander stepped in front of him again, embarrassed, “No. I mean, yes. Of course he told me about it.”

“Well then can we get a fucking move on, please?”

“Yes-- yes, of course,” Alexander closed his eyes briefly, thinking. “Yes-- just-- tie up, there at the dock. I will alert the manager of the slave yard in the back.”

The teenager made his way back to the shop, heart racing. He tried to remember if Cruger had said anything about a slave ship -- Alexander silently cursed himself for being so nervous. He heard the shouts, and then, the clank of chains. The sound echoed off the sides of the buildings.

He reached the manager and explained the situation. 

“Collins,” the manager said, exasperatedly, as if he were disappointed in the weather, “Idiot wasn’t supposed to be here for another few days. The yard isn’t ready.”

“I know, sir, and I explained that to him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

The manager pushed past Alexander and went to greet the sailors and the cargo-- people, Alexander corrected himself. Suddenly, he felt ill. 

Alexander saw Will and Gregory in his mind, tried to remember what they sounded like. As a child he imagined they came from somewhere far away, the same way his father did. He enjoyed their company as a boy. When his mother became too ill and poor to keep them, they stayed behind and helped. He turned the corner and ran into Collins. 

“Get out of my way, idiot,” the sailor grabbed the teenager roughly by the shoulders and shoved him aside. The smell of body odor, urine and sea water filled Alexander’s nostrils, and his stomach turned

Collins made his way down the thin alley, calling after his men, “Bring them this way!”

Another rattle of chains, and Alexander flattened himself against the wall to allow the people to shuffle past him. He locked eyes with a boy his age, wearing nothing but a dirty pair of pants and a torn linen shirt two sizes too big, and he lowered his gaze, ashamed. 

He stared at the sandy ground until the line of people had passed him, the clanking of the iron chains making his teeth hurt. The church bell rang out on the hour, mixing with the sound of metal and sobs, a terrible cacophony in Alexander’s ear. The irony of the dueling noises was not lost on the teenager. 

****

Alexander spent the rest of the day in his office, shutting his ears and eyes to the goings-on of the slave yard.

He tried to hum a song to himself, tried to busy himself with the books, but nothing shook the images from his mind.

The island was populated mostly with Africans, or those of mixed-race-- the distinction was blurry and not useful, especially in business. Cruger had always told him it didn’t matter what someone looked like: if they had deep pockets, he didn’t care--the confusion of his philosophy in stark relief as Alexander watched the African people being herded down the street.

The sun was still above the horizon in the late afternoon, and Alexander decided he’d had enough for the day. He looked at his half-finished notes, despairing.  _ This _ was the reality of the life of a merchant, and he always knew in the back of his mind this day would eventually come. 

He packed his papers silently, still ruminating on the scene.

Alexander knew who he needed to see. He made his way to the moderately sized house on the northern side of the island. The orange glow that illuminated the dining room windows shone softly in the night air. Alexander fixed his gaze on the front door, adjusted his too-small vest, and ascended the steps. 

“So good of you to make it, Little Hamilton,” The Reverend opened the door on the third knock, “Please, come in.”

“Hello, Reverend,” Alexander said. “I am sorry for calling on you at home, but I needed to see you. I hope it is okay.”

Knox put an arm around him, ushering him in, “Of course it is. You know you are welcome here any time.”

The entryway was sparsely and haphazardly decorated: mismatched paintings hung on the far-left wall while the orange glow from the dining room reflected onto the polished floor. To the right was the culprit: a blazing fire had been lit, illuminating the long table and place sets for two people. The table had been set with a modest meal. Alexander caught a whiff of the food and his stomach growled loudly. 

The Reverend laughed, “You are my only guest, I am afraid.” He moved so that the younger boy could enter. “I invited some other notables from the island for dinner this evening, but they had other plans.”

Immediately, Alexander was hit with the stifling warmth of the rooms. He began unwrapping his scarf, still looking around. 

“Yes, I am sorry for the heat. I run cold, unfortunately. This wet heat of the island won’t do, either,” the Reverend shut the door and indicated Alexander join him in the dining room. The fire cracked loudly, and moist wood sizzled. “I find that keeping a steady, dry heat in the house keeps the mosquitoes away. Learned that the hard way.”

The older man placed both hands on the back of a chair, and looked at Alexander expectantly. 

“I... I’m sorry, Reverend. I’m afraid I don’t know how to begin.” Alexander offered, feeling awkward. 

To Alexander’s surprise, the Reverend smiled, “I suppose this is about your duties at Cruger’s, then. Has he abandoned you completely? I heard talk he is travelling.”

Alexander relaxed a little as he situated himself in a chair, “Not completely, no. Just for a few months while he stays in New York for an illness. He has written to me, but he seems nervous.”

“Yes, I should expect he would be. You’re better at his job than he is,” Reverend Knox helped himself to a spoonful of diced potatoes and a piece of chicken. “Please, eat. There is too much for me.”

Knox continued, between bites. “I was so hoping you would come to visit, but I knew you were busy.” 

Alexander tried not to look desperate as he piled the food onto his own plate silently. 

The reverend continued, “Nicolas--Mr. Cruger-- and I have been in correspondence since the death of your cousin, poor fellow.”

Alexander bit his lip and studied the tablecloth. 

“I am sorry to bring up such a dark moment, dear boy,” Reverend Knox lowered his voice, “No child should have to be subject to such horrors.”

The younger boy looked up. “I am not a child.”

The Reverend made a face, “No, I suppose life has taken that occupation away from you, hasn’t she?”

A few silent seconds of the two diners filled the room. The cracking of the fire clashed oddly with the screaming sea birds outside, diving up and down against the backdrop of a dull purple sunset. 

“I do want to extend my deepest sympathy to you, Alexander,” the reverend said, looking at him. “And as always, if you need to find solace in God, you know I offer my guidance freely.”

Alexander avoided his gaze, “The church at large is not so kind as you.”

Reverend Knox watched him for a moment, then spoke again, “It was unfair of them to cast you out so, especially as orphans. But our complaints with the church can wait. Tell me what has you looking so sick tonight, Little Hamilton.”

Another pause. 

“You spoke in one of your sermons-- about slavery, and human bondage,” Alexander began, unsure how to broach the subject. He saw a look of dawning realization on Knox’s face. 

“Yes. That particular sermon saw a rather empty congregation.” The older man waited for a moment, then, “I am assuming by the look on your face Cruger had you handle some of that evil business today.”

Alexander nodded mutely, chewing a piece of chicken slowly. Reverend Knox inhaled deeply. 

“God despises those who would harm another human so. You know that in your heart.”

“But Cruger-- he is a good man. He has been kind to me. Though a little annoying at times,” Alexander spoke.

The reverend put his fork down, “Cruger is a struggling soul, just like you and I, and we must pray for him that one day he will see the light.”

“He was supposed to take care of the slavers, not me. He marked the dates wrong in his book.”

“Would that have made things any better?”

“I do not want to see that again,” Alexander replied quietly. 

Knox matched his tone, “You cannot close your eyes to it any longer. Now you truly see the cruelty of the institution, and you can use your brain and ingenuity to help stop it. I believe this happened for a reason, don’t you? Perhaps this is God’s way of calling on you.”

“How am I supposed to stop it when this entire island--”

“--You are miles ahead of them. Your guilt proves it.”

Alexander took a sip of his drink, thinking for a moment. He spoke, “I feel so helpless, Reverend. I am studying, but to what end? Who will listen to a little bookkeeper from St. Croix?”

Knox put his fork down and swallowed. “How would you like it if I inquired into such a thing, while I am in New Jersey?”

The blood thudded in Alexander’s ears, and he swallowed a large chunk of meat painfully. He felt the lump travel down his chest.

He wasn’t sure he heard the reverend correctly, “Sir?”

Reverend Knox placed both hands on the table, finding his words, “When Cruger told me how impressed he was with your accounting knowledge, especially for your age, I asked him if I would be allowed to extend a possible offer to--”

“--Yes.” Alexander put his fork down.

The Reverend laughed, “You haven’t even my proposition yet.”

“Anything is better than this,” Alexander replied, not caring about the bitterness in his voice. “I am adrift here. I travel from family to family like an unwanted pet-- this island is so small, everyone knows who I am and the circumstances of my very existence-- I don’t care what the opportunity is. I will check boxes in a ledger if it means I may leave this blasted place. Sir.”

The Reverend raised his eyebrows, “You are determined, then?”

“More than anything.”

Reverend Knox smiled, pleased with himself. He put his fork down with a clank, “Good to hear it. I know Cruger will suffer without his best clerk, but a mind as quick as yours does belong somewhere where it may blossom. Be so kind as to deliver to me some examples of your writings, so that I may relay them to my associates on the island. You must have filled that little journal of yours by now, eh?”

A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance; a log shifted in the fire with another pop and a sizzle of smoke. Alexander felt his mouth go dry.

“Writings, yes. Of course. I have-- I have many I can give you. I suppose you want examples of different types, and--”

“--Anything you have will do, Little Hamilton,” Reverend Knox smiled again, took a sip of wine, and leaned back in his chair. 

****

Aaron was not able to say goodbye to Paterson before he’d left the university. 

He walked by his office, confused at its emptiness. 

A student approached him.

“Are you looking for William Paterson?”

“Yes. Has he moved offices?” Aaron asked, sticking his head inside the small room, looking around. 

“He’s a Judge, now. In Trenton, I believe. At least for the time being. You were a pupil of his?” The student asked. Aaron nodded, yes. The student continued, “Hmm-- I thought he’d sent letters to all his pupils telling them. Want me to check around to see if there’s a letter for you?”

Aaron suddenly felt alone. He was silent for a moment. 

“No. That is fine.”

The student nodded at him, and then continued on his way, leaving Aaron standing in the empty office. He looked around silently, unprepared for how sad he felt. 

“Why don’t you write to him?” Matt asked one day from his bed, looking over the top of his book, “Do you have his address?”

“No, but I am sure I can procure it from someone.”

“Maybe he will write to you first,” Matt offered helpfully. He was quiet for a moment, allowing Aaron to revel in a memory. Then, sighing, he continued, “You cannot take it personally. He was a busy man. I am sure he would have said something to you had he had the chance.”

Aaron shrugged it off, “It is of no matter. Hand me that essay, will you?”

The spring sun streamed in through the window, and Aaron found it hard to concentrate. He avoided the tavern and the town as much as he could-- yet was still beckoned from time to time to join in for a good time. 

It was impossible to say no-- patrons began to ask for him by name. Aaron began to structure his day around who he could see at the tavern, or walking around town, and it invariably ended with buying them a drink. 

It was a windy day in May when Aaron found himself in this situation, milling around town with a book under his arm, avoiding letters from his uncle and stares from fellow students. He heard Samuel’s voice in his mind from a recent conversation--  _ People are starting to think you don’t care _ \-- and brushed it aside. Matt’s warnings rang out in his memory-- _ Have you looked at your accounts lately? _ \-- and ignored that as well. He closed his eyes and breathed the fresh air in deeply, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. 

“I know that look,” Hyer called to the teenager as he stood out front of his tavern, beating a rug. “That’s the look of a man who wants to come inside and see his friends!”

Aaron waved, “Good Day, Mr. Hyer.”

Remarkably, the teenager realized, the grumpy tavern keep grew more and more fond of him the more money he spent. Hyer began offering him free drinks and food, in exchange for promotion around the university campus. The temptation was too great, and Aaron made his way over to the tavern. 

“Another free day, eh? Do you even attend classes anymore?” Hyer asked the teenager as he poured him a tall glass of ale. 

“It is more important that the students teach themselves, outside of class,” Aaron replied lamely. 

“If you were my son I’d have you whipped for being a layabout,” Hyer grumbled. Then he slapped Aaron on the back, jolting the teenager forward so hard he spilled a bit of ale. Hyer laughed, “Just a joke, there, Burr!! You’re no one’s son, are you?”

Aaron watched as the tavern keep walked away, muttering and laughing to himself. He finished the ale in three more gulps. Leaning back in his seat, he surveyed the room. 

Paterson was never far from his thoughts. Aaron frowned to himself, working through the complicated strands that made up his relationship with his tutor. He left the school without telling Aaron, and the teenager wondered if it was even his choice, if perhaps he was told at the last minute. Maybe Paterson did not want to leave, and was forced to. Surely he would reach out to Aaron. He wondered if it was his fault-- if he’d done something to upset the older man. He stared dolefully into his glass for a moment.

A woman in the corner of the room caught Aaron’s eye, and he recognized her as the twenty-year old who kissed his cheek and thanked him for the drink several weeks ago. He smiled and nodded at her. 

In another few seconds, she was making her way over, and suddenly the warm drunkenness that settled on him cleared as he watched her come closer. She stood at the table, looking down on him, 

“You’re here almost every day, and we’ve never been introduced. My name is Hannah,” she held out her hand, and Aaron reached for it, kissing it instinctively. Hannah pulled it back, laughing, “What manners!”

“I’m Aaron. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You don’t seem like you’re from around here.”

“I was born here. Though I grew up in Connecticut.”

Hannah slid into the booth next to him, “You struck me as a New Englander. So cold. You’re always surrounded by people but so distant.”

The teenager looked at her, surprised, “I hadn’t paid it any attention.”

“Do you have friends at the the College?”

“A few. I mainly hang around with my cousin,” Aaron beckoned for another two glasses of ale. Hannah looked at him, feigning surprise at the gesture. 

She spoke, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“You seem so much  _ older _ ,” Hannah accepted the drinks, and took a sip. “Do you know anyone named Peter Clarkson? He was a student at the university a few years ago.”

As if on cue, the second glass of ale made Aaron’s thoughts swim as he tried to place the name. Hannah seemed to be drinking her ale at a much slower pace. She waited. 

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“He was an old beau. You look just like him. Dark eyes.” 

In his nervousness, Aaron took another sip of the alcohol, “There are too many people at the school. I don’t know all of them. Would you like me to ask around to see if he is still studying there? I can tell him you asked about him.”

Hannah giggled, “No, that’s okay. I don’t miss him. You just remind me of him.”

Aaron scanned the room again, eyes landing on Hannah’s group of girlfriends, who seemed to be in on a great joke, laughing amongst themselves. She grabbed his arm.

“You’re smart. I can tell. Would you be willing to help me with some readings?”

“Some...readings? What do you mean? Like translations?”

Hannah thought for a moment, “Well, I want to write Peter a love letter, but I don’t know what to say, and my spelling is not too good. I always see you walking around town with books and papers, you seem so intelligent, and kind.”

Aaron looked at her-- thick eyelashes and pink lips, smiling-- a small alarm sound buzzing in his ears. 

“What are your friends laughing at?”

Hannah looked taken aback, “Oh! Don’t mind them. They think you are too young for me to be talking to you, but they’re just jealous. They don’t know how learned you are. But they’ll see when you help me with this letter. I bet you’re...oh. What is the word? For someone who speaks using pretty words.”

“Eloquent.”

She clapped, “Yes. That’s it. Eloquent.”

“Shall I join you and your friends at your table, then?” Aaron asked, smiling. He finished the last of his ale, shaking his head when Hyer offered another. He felt good-- not drunk, not sober, but in the perfect in-between. He noticed a dimple on Hannah’s cheek. 

“The letter is in my room, upstairs. It’s a private thing, you understand.” Hannah stood, and offered Aaron her arm. He took it, nerves dulled. 

****

It was as if a new vigor was injected into Alexander’s veins; he woke early, made his way to Cruger’s with his journal in tow, and spent the slow parts of the day jotting down whatever whimsical rhyme came to his mind. With his newfound energy, the teenager found it easier to take on the duties of a groveling clerk. 

He finished the book’s daily counting, and pulled out his journal, dipping his quill in the well of ink in front of him. He held the end of the feather to his chin, thinking for a moment. A poem came to him, and he quickly jotted it down, smiling.

He hid his papers under the books and receipts, keeping them from Cruger’s eye. 

He greeted the surly sailors with a pleasant smile, and politely asked them for help unloading the shipments. Even when forty barrels of rice arrived filled with rats, he found his patience as deep as a well, knowing that he had something to look forward too. Nothing seemed as bad as it was.

Alexander watched the rats scurry past him on the dock towards the town, watched the sailors unload the barrels into the back of the shop. 

“You look happy,” the captain of the ship remarked, suspiciously. 

Alexander smiled, “It is nothing. Just enjoying the fresh air.”

“Not gonna whine and stomp your foot about these bloody rats, then?”

“Nothing a good alley cat can’t fix.”

The captain of the ship looked at him as if Alexander was speaking a made-up language. He frowned, shrugged, and walked away, shaking his head. 

The unloading process took three hours, and once it was organized and counted in the storeroom, Alexander was back at his desk, writing poems. 

He let the words flow from his pen, not caring if they made sense. Then, he would read over them and make sure everything was in its place. He liked to imagine Knox’s face when he read them-- smiling, perhaps sharing them with friends. This thought urged him on. 

He didn’t hear the quiet knock on his door while he scribbled the words down, quickly so they wouldn’t dissipate in his head. The knock got louder, and he dropped his quill to the floor.

“Yes?” Alexander jumped up from his stool, somewhat annoyed. “The door is unlocked, come in.”

Alexander dropped to the floor, checking under the desk for his quill. He heard the hinges squeak, and someone enter. Alexander shot up, preparing to admonish them for daring to inadvertently interrupt his poetry session. He stopped short, recognizing the person as the African boy he’d made eye contact with. 

“Oh, hello. Are you looking for someone?” Alexander managed, red-faced from being on the floor. 

The other boy walked into the room and closed the door. He spoke in a low voice, “I was told to come see you.”

Alexander frowned, looking around awkwardly, “Well, I...er...I don’t really need help right now. Who told you to come here?”

The boy felt his shirt, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a letter and handed it to Alexander, who scanned it quickly. 

“That is from Mr. Beekman,” the boy added softly. “I was told this office was to be where I work.”

Alexander looked from the boy to his writings, silently lamenting his loss of privacy. He looked back at the other teenager, who watched him, then continued staring at the floor. After a few more seconds of silence, the other teenager spoke again.

“Mr. Beekman sent me here because I can do arithmetic and read and write.”

“Your English is very good.”

“I was raised in London,” the teenager said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. Alexander looked at him, and felt his stomach sink. 

“What did you say your name was?”

The boy thought for a moment, “...M.”

“‘M’? Just a single letter?” Alexander looked at the other teenager, confused. He put his quill back on his desk and walked over to him. “You can tell me your name. Surely you have a proper full name.”

Finally, the other teenager locked eyes with Alexander, “It is Maggie.”

“Matty?”

“ _ Maggie _ . As in, short for Margaret.”

A realization spread across Alexander’s face, “Oh-- I-- you didn’t seem--”

“--It is fine. Please, just call me Mags. Please don’t tell anyone.” The other teenager looked pleadingly at Alexander, “I had to do this for my own safety. I am more...comfortable, like this.”

“Yes...yes, of course. No, I won’t tell a soul,” Alexander looked at Mags, then back at his papers, walking over to them. 

“I am just-- this is nothing,” Alexander said quickly, shuffling his personal writings to the back of a book, “I am tallying up the day’s work, here.”

He felt Mags watching him. The teenager spoke, “What should I do?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, the books need organizing. Alphabetically, please,” Alexander walked over to a bookshelf in the corner, whose contents were haphazardly shoved onto it. “Some of the papers are missing.” His shoulders fell, and he looked at Mags, ‘Some of these will have to be re-transcribed, too.”

Mags walked over.

For a moment, Alexander regarded the other teenager. He watched as Mags flipped through the pages, saw their eyes scan the words rapidly, brows frowning. They pointed to a small scribble, “There’s a spelling error, just here. Shall I correct those?”

Alexander blinked, “Yes. Please.”

Mags nodded, taking the book to a nearby table, sitting in a stool and reaching for a quill as though they’d done it thousands of times before. 

“Why did you leave London?”

“It wasn’t my choice, sir.” Mags locked eyes with Alexander briefly, then looked back at the book. Immediately, Alexander felt silly. 

“Oh, of course. What a stupid question,” he muttered. He looked around, and Mags spoke again. 

“I am going to need a blank book. May I take that one?” They pointed to Alexander’s brown, leather bound journal in the corner. Alexander reached for it. 

“Not that one,” he said quickly, embarrassed, shoving it behind a pile of papers. “Take one of these.”

“Very well.” 

The pair worked in silence for fifty minutes-- Alexander watched the clock, and Mags’ eyes never left the paper. He looked at the other teenager. A wave of guilt and curiosity washed over him, and he could be silent no longer. 

“Was it Cruger who brought you here?”

Mags looked up from their paper, and blinked once, “I don’t know.”

Alexander chewed on his lip, thinking, “If Cruger knew you were living in London as a citizen there I don’t think he would have--”

“--Do you  _ really _ want the whole story?” Mags dropped the quill, and gave their full attention to Alexander, who quieted. “I fell asleep in my own bed, and when I woke up, I was on a ship. That’s all I know.”

Alexander looked closer at the clothes Mags was wearing, and it suddenly dawned on him that they were pajamas. He thought for a moment, and went back to his work. 

The pair worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon, and at six pm, Mags stood up, stretching. They shut the book--already filled front to back with the re-transcribed notes-- and handed it to Alexander. 

“You’re finished?” 

“Yes, sir.” Mags put their hands in their pockets, and stared at the floor. “May I be excused for the day, or do you have something else for me to do?”

“No...you may go,” Alexander replied. He watched the other teenager nod once, then turn to leave. In the next second, his personal writings caught his eye. He darted out the door of the office and into the darkened hallway, following Mags. 

“Wait!”

Mags paused and turned around, “Yes?”

“I was-- actually-- I do have something else I need your help with,” He ushered the other teenager back into the office, the candles around them flickering with movement, casting the room in an orange glow. He picked up his writings slowly. 

“These-- these are personal writings of mine,” Alexander said quietly. “I can’t let Cruger know I’ve been using my time here to work on them. He can’t know.”

Mags looked down at the stack of papers in Alexander’s hand, “And…?”

“And I was hoping, well, since you are so quick with reading...perhaps you could go over them, to check for spelling mistakes.”

Mags raised their eyebrows, looking at Alexander, and taking the papers from him. 

“What is this…?”

Alexander dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand out at odd angles. He sighed, “I actually don’t know. It was-- I was just writing some thoughts down and it kind of turned into a bit of a diatribe, as you can see.”

He trailed off as Mags flipped through the sheets, “‘Rules for a Statesman’? There has to be one hundred pages here.”

“Oh! Don’t think you have to go through the whole thing tonight. Maybe just until the docks close in an hour or so. Here. Look at this one. It’s a short poem I’ve been working on.”

“There’s no title.”

Alexander took the page back from Mags, “What? Well-- I mean, of course not. I’m not done.”

“Well you need a title. All the great poets title their works.” Mags held out their hand, waiting for Alexander to give the poem back. “May I?”

Mags took the paper, reading it. Alexander watched the other teenager awkwardly, moving his hands from his pockets, to the table between them. He picked up a quill and fiddled with it, placing it back into the well. He watched Mags for what felt like an eternity, to him, their eyes scanning the lines quickly, never betraying any thought. Then, “This sounds like it is about someone having a religious conversion.”

Alexander paused, and then replied, “...That’s it?”

Mags looked up, flatly, “What do you mean? It’s fine. It reminds me of church. I used to go every week with the family I lived with in London.”

“I mean, spelling? Grammar? All is perfect?”

Mags shrugged, “No spelling mistakes. The rhyming cadence is like a song. Will you put it to music?”

Alexander scratched his head, looking at the words, “I don’t know how to play an instrument.”

“Sing it, then.”

“Perhaps…” Alexander walked back to his desk, rereading the lines, trying to find the cadence Mags spoke of. 

“You can go home now, if you want.” He said after a beat. Mags nodded once, then turned to walk out the door once more.

****

It was the middle of the night when Aaron woke. He felt around him in the pitch black, the first few seconds of consciousness dancing confusingly in his groggy mind. He had a headache. The room smelled of cheap perfume. Suddenly, it came rushing back to him. 

He felt around him in the empty bed, then felt for a candle and match. He lit the room in an orange glow, and looked around.

His clothes sat in a pile on the floor. Aaron swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing as he rubbed his eyes. 

He grabbed his pants and threw them on, then his crumpled shirt. 

“Hannah,” he whispered. No one answered. 

Beneath him, he could hear the sounds of the tavern revelries, and guessed it must have been around midnight. He exhaled, closing his eyes, and feeling in his pockets. 

Aaron’s heart sank as he realized he’d been robbed.

The realizations came over him in slow beats.

He had been duped, and robbed, and-- 

Aaron sat back down, letting his thoughts trail off. He didn’t remember any of it. He felt at once scared and uncomfortably adult. He opened his eyes and stared at the floor for a full minute, letting the embarrassment course through him. 

A song in the tavern below him ended, the room erupted into applause, and another began. 

Aaron realized he couldn’t go out the way he came in. 

Hyer would be there, demanding payment for the drinks and the room. Hannah would be there-- Aaron stopped, clenching his teeth in anger. He pushed her face from his mind. The moon peered out from behind some clouds, illuminating the room, and diverting Aaron’s attention to the window. It was the only way out of the room without having to walk downstairs. 

He walked over to the window, and cracked the pane open, looking down. He tried to remember the last time he’d climbed a tree, or scaled a facade. Aaron took another look at the sheets on the bed, and knew what he had to do. 

The teenager fastened one end of the sheets to the bed post, and threw the rest out the window, using them to scale down the building before jumping the last few feet. 

He hit the ground with a thud, pain shooting through his ankle. Aaron swore, realizing he was in front of a window into the dining room. He limped quickly towards the trees that lined the main road, and disappeared into the woods.


	7. Chaos

Like Alexander has assumed, in a dim corner in the back of his mind, a routine fell into place once again. But this time, he had Mags to keep him company. 

Mags was a fast learner, and Alexander breathed a sigh of relief when one day they offered to take over counting inventory. 

“It’s the worst part of the job, Mags. You’ll start seeing check marks in your sleep,” Alexander warned, handing over the parchment to the other teenager. Mags sighed under their breath. 

“It’s not so bad. I would rather be doing that than just sitting here. Where is the stockroom key?”

“Over in the box by the window. Make sure to lock up,” Alexander replied, sitting at his desk. “This works out well.”

This was how it went for several weeks-- the pair would arrive early, Mags would disappear into the stockroom for a few hours, and Alexander would have time to himself to continue his writing, in between bookkeeping. 

It was a rainy afternoon on a slower day when Mags finished up the inventory for the week. They made their way back into the main office, Alexander placing aside his notes. Mags put the key back in the box. 

“That’s it. Everything accounted for.”

“So fast!”

“Well, there’s not much down there right now. Couple barrels of rum, and rice. There’s a pile of fabric that’s been there for months, and I think it’s being slowly eaten by bugs. That will have to be looked into.”

Alexander looked down at his list, “Noted. Anything else?”

Mags shrugged, “No.”

Alexander was silent for a moment, then, “There’s not much that can be done outside, either. You may go rest for the day, if you want.”

To his surprise, Mags grabbed a book off the shelf, and sat on the floor against the wall, looking up.

“You wouldn’t mind if I just stayed here, would you? This book caught my eye the other day, and I wanted to look into it.”

“You don’t want to go home?” Alexander asked, placing his quill down. 

Mags sighed, shoulders drooping, “This is preferable to where I live, trust me.”

Alexander waited for them to continue; his curiosity piqued. When Mags didn’t explain, he prodded them for more information. 

“What do you mean?”

Mags thought for a moment, placing a finger inside the book and closing it, “You wouldn't understand. No offense, sir.”

Alexander walked over to another shelf, pulling out two pears from a bag. He joined the other teenager on the floor and offered them one. Mags accepted, smiling in thanks. 

“What book is that?”

Mags showed him the cover, “It is about the Italian method of mathematics and counting techniques, I believe. Mathematics was always a little troublesome for me. In London, the young girl I lived with, Elizabeth, struggled too. Our tutor was terrible.”

Alexander smiled, taking a bite of the pear, “How so?” He asked, mouth full. 

“He was almost as young as we were. So inexperienced.”

“What was the family’s name?”

“The Williamses,” Mags answered. Alexander saw the wistful look in their eyes and waited for them to continue. “I miss them terribly.” 

Alexander swallowed and asked the question he’d been burning to know since Mags had arrived. 

“How did you… I mean… you lived a good life in London, and now you’re here--” he stumbled over his words. 

Mags was quiet for several seconds, chewing the pear. They swallowed, then answered. 

“It was slavers,” they said quietly. “They used to come to London, looking for Africans to abduct.”

The rain picked up outside the window, hitting the pane loudly, filling the air with a steady, calming noise. 

Mags exhaled. “It is a pretty common story, how I got here. There are thousands like me. Look around, and ask.”

“What of your family? The Williamses? Didn’t they stop the slavers?” Alexander asked.

“They didn’t know it was happening. The slavers stole me in the middle of the night. I think they were watching us from afar, waiting for the attack. There were three others, like me, the night of the raids.”

The two teenagers were quiet again for several seconds. Mags stared out the window, then spoke, “My parents were from Egypt. They were wealthy and respected. They had enough money to move to London to set up a business selling spices. They wanted me to be educated, and so sent me to live with the Williamses. We lived happily for three years in London.”

Alexander had forgotten about his pear, setting it aside. He gave his full attention to the other teenager, situating himself in a more comfortable position. Mags went on.

“One summer, the city was so dirty and wet. The climate didn’t agree with my parents, and they got sick. I didn’t know anything was wrong until they were gone.”

“That’s horrible,” Alexander replied in a low voice. 

Mags sniffed, “I don’t want to dwell on it. The Williamses adopted me as their own daughter.”

Alexander blinked, and Mags saw the confusion in his face. 

“Can you see me in a pretty dress, with flowers in my hair?” Mags added. “They were kind, but I hated it.”

“To be fair, I hear ladies’ corsets are a thing of evil,” Alexander added, to lighten the mood. Mags chuckled. 

“The Williamses let me cut off all my hair, but they demanded that I wear wigs in public,” Mags rolled their eyes. “Almost as evil as corsets. But, when I was home with them, I did not have to. They had an elder son who’d moved away, and they let me wear his clothes. They saw I was a more productive student when I was allowed to wear what I wanted.”

Alexander watched the other teenager attentively, trying to imagine them in London, happy and content. Another blanket of sadness fell over him.

“I was a daughter sometimes, and a son others. It was fine for me,” Mags said, matter-of-factly. “I could go where I pleased and do what I wanted. For now, it is safer to be a man than a woman-- and so--”

Mags indicated to their outfit. 

“Perhaps one day I will be comfortable in a dress,” they said.

Alexander thought for a moment, then, “How long did you live with the Williamses?”

“From the time I was five, until sixteen.” Mags turned their attention to Alexander. “Your boss, Mr. Cruger, is the reason I am here, Alexander. It was his slavers who took me from my own home and shipped me off.”

A sharp pang hit Alexander in his chest. He struggled with a rebuttal. 

“But that-- that is  _ illegal _ . If you are a free citizen of Great Britain--”

“--It does not matter. I am African. They don’t care.”

Alexander shook his head, “But that  _ law _ is above all that. Surely the Williamses will be looking for you. They will have documentation stating that you are a free citizen.”

Alexander continued talking, and Mags exhaled, closing their eyes. 

“The Reverend Knox. He will help you, as he is helping me. He is petitioning the wealthy merchants of the island, raising funds for me to travel to America--”

“--The wealthy merchants? You mean the ones who brought me here in the first place? No, I do not believe they will be warm to the idea of giving money to a slave.” Mags cut him off sharply. “I appreciate your good heart, Alexander, but not everyone thinks as you think.”

Alexander quieted, staring down at the floor. Outside, the rain ebbed, and voices could be heard calling across the docks. Slowly, the town came back to life as the sun came out. 

Mags sighed, cleared their throat, standing, “Sounds like another shipment just pulled in.”

Alexander looked up, “Really, Mags-- it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Not this time. According to Cruger’s notes it’s going to be a bunch of mules,” Mags turned, putting the book back on the shelf. “I can’t meet the sailors alone. Get up, you have to come with me.”

Alexander stood, and followed the other teenager outside. He smelled the ship and the cargo before they even had time to properly note the name of the boat.

_ Thunderbolt _ , Alexander read, his stomach sinking.  _ Not again.  _

Mags and Alexander watched the mules all being herded into the same yard where they’d kept the African slaves only weeks before. Alexander closed his eyes, leaned on a nearby post. Mags’ expression was inscrutable; resentful.

Mags shook his shoulder, “Look at them. The mules look like they haven’t been fed in weeks.”

Alexander stood straight, blinking. He dropped his shoulders, defeated, “It’s because they probably haven’t. That must be Captain Jones. Mags, would you please go back inside and find the inventory book for the Thunderbolt? I will deal with him.”

Alexander felt Mags leave and prepared to go and speak with the surly sailor, writing and rewriting in his mind’s eye the apologetic letter he would have to send to Cruger.

_ I have at length the pleasure to acquaint you of the arrival of the sloop Thunderbolt with her first cargo of mules-- but I am sorry to be obliged to offer you an unpleasing account of them. She arrived here on the 30th with forty-one in the worst order imaginable.  _

“There’s the little boss,” Captain Jones sneered, as his men unloaded the last of the pathetic animals. “What does My Lord have to say today?”

Alexander steadied himself, “What on  _ earth _ happened to the mules?”

“Nothing. They’re  _ here _ , aren’t they?” Jones’ turned red, “It’s not my bloody fault the weather wasn’t in our favor. No wind. Took twice as long to sail. You’d know that if you had any experience.”

“The weather?” Alexander matched the much older man’s anger, “You’re blaming the weather for sending us forty-one useless, half-starved beasts? What good will they do us if they drop dead from exhaustion!”

Jones looked directly at him, stepping forward. Alexander took one step back, locking eyes with him, and tried to continue his transaction. His heart raced, “I will  _ try _ to make the most of this sorry herd by sending what I can to pasture, hopefully to fatten them up...but I can only sell them at 100 pieces a head, at most. More than likely, half that.”

“Half that?” Jones shouted.

Alexander suddenly felt enraged, “You say I know nothing about sailing-- fine. I will grant you that. But you know nothing about business, so why don’t you stick to where you belong and let smarter men handle the money!”

In a flash, Jones reached out, backhanding the teenager across the face. Alexander’s papers scattered in the wind, and some of the sailors behind their captain let out hoots of laughter. Alexander saw stars, blinking, staring at the splintering wood of the docks, his face on fire. 

“I will not be handled by some little jumped-up motherless  _ bastard _ ,” the captain pointed at him, “Next time, that will be my knife at your cheek, you hear me?”

Alexander bit his tongue to keep from crying out, the pain in his face spreading down his neck. 

Like the slaver had done, Jones spat at him, and headed back to his ship.

Humiliated, Alexander avoided the eyes of curious vendors and passers-by, attempting to pick up his notes. He looked in dismay to see that half of them had fallen into the ocean. Still another had been grabbed by a stray dog who ran off. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, bruise beginning to spread.

Mags looked up as he entered the small office, “Alexander, I have the-- what on earth…!”

Mags walked over, alarmed. Alexander sat with a slump at the desk. 

“Had a disagreement with the captain,” was all he could come up with. Mags looked on, silently. Alexander reached behind him, pulling a paper from the shelf, and dipping his quill in the inkwell. 

****

Aaron read in books-- the ones he found in the very back of the bookstore, with salacious drawings in them -- that intimacy was meant to make one feel  _ different _ , more adult. He saw in one particularly vivid story how a man slept with a woman, who turned out to be a succubus, who then gave him powers over all the women in his town. 

In another, more horrifying story, Aaron learned of a monk who slept with a prostitute, who then contracted a disease that destroyed the monk’s genitals.

Aaron caught the title of a third that promised “secrets to make anyone of the female sex fall in love” before the bookstore owner chased him out of the shop.

None of the books were true. 

Aaron felt no different, at least during the day. 

He found himself staring at the other students, wondering if they’d had the same experiences he did. He looked at Matt one day, while they were quietly reading, and wondered if he’d been with a woman. He’d never asked.

It was a few weeks after the incident at the tavern, when Aaron woke himself up in the middle of the night, crying out. He opened his eyes with a start, hyperventilating, taking a few seconds to remember where he was, and that he was safe in his own bed. The nightmare dissipated from his mind quickly, but before it did, he saw Hannah’s face, and it made him ill. 

“Are you alright?” Matt whispered in the dark from his bed across the room. 

“I am fine. I am going for a walk.”

“It’s got to be nearly one am. Are you sure?”

Aaron didn’t answer him, grabbing his cloak and boots.

It was strange, he mused, bracing himself against the night air. He didn’t remember the act, didn’t get to enjoy it-- but it had happened. Did it  _ count _ ? What was the fuss about? Aaron hadn’t been back to the tavern since the night with Hannah; in fact, the thought of accidentally running into her again made him clammy with nerves, a pit forming in his stomach. It was all horribly wrong and awkward. The books lied to him.

If he found another girl, a different one, would it be better? Aaron stuck his hands deeper into his pockets, sighing loudly. The crescent moon peeked out from behind tree branches. There had to be more to it than that. Perhaps next time he wouldn’t be stupid enough to get robbed. Perhaps next time, he wouldn’t be such a naive child about the whole thing. Suddenly Aaron found himself grinding his teeth, a sharp pain in his jaw. 

That was it-- he  _ was _ stupid about the whole thing. He shouldn’t have been at the tavern, drinking. He should have been in the dormitories with Matt, or Samuel, making the most of his time at the University. He shouldn’t have been idiot enough to believe Hannah and gone upstairs with her while her friends laughed. Another sharp jaw pain. He was terribly stupid.

Aaron kicked a large rock, and it hit a tree to his left. It was terribly unfair. She was able to remember it, and he wasn’t. A new emotion churned inside him. He tried to place it. 

Who knew about him? Who had she told? Did Hyer know? Did the people laughing downstairs know?

Aaron found himself sitting at a small table beneath a tree in the courtyard. He put his head in his hands. 

****

“What are you reading?” Matt swooped in from behind Aaron, yanking the piece of paper from his hands. He laughed, scanning the page quickly. “Good Lord...If Uncle Timothy saw  _ this-- _ ”

“Give it back, Matt,” Aaron said, grabbing the paper and folding it, feeling his face burn. “It is just a page of poems, nothing more.”

“Poems. Right. ‘Celia’s an artful little slut’-- I remember reading that one in last week’s lecture.”

Aaron rubbed his eyes, inhaled, “Just be quiet about it, won’t you? I’ve seen you read worse.”

“Let me read it. I swear I won’t laugh.”

Aaron looked at him and crossed his arms. Then, “No.”

Matt tilted his head back and laughed again, “I will steal it from you while you sleep. Just give it here.”

Aaron sighed again, uncrossed his arms, and reluctantly dug the paper from his pocket. He unfolded it, already heavily creased and bent, and handed it to his cousin.

“It’s drivel. It’s nothing. Some of the students were passing it sound,” Aaron heard himself offer in defense.

Matt took it, a wide grin still affixed to his mouth. He looked down at the words, raised his eyebrows, and began reading: 

_ “In yonder mead my love I found / Beside a murm’ring brook reclin’d: / Her pretty lambkins dancing round / Secure in harmless bliss. / I bade the waters gently glide, / And vainly hush’d the heedless wind, / Then, softly kneeling by her side, / I stole a silent kiss—”  _

Matt stopped and looked over at his friend. Aaron bit the inside of his cheek and waited.

“This is…” Matt smiled, “...Quaint.”

“I’ve seen the simpering tripe  _ you _ send girls,” Aaron’s face burned.

Matt raised a finger, “I’m not finished.” 

He continued: 

_ “ ‘She wak’d, and rising sweetly blush’d / By far more artless than the dove: / With eager haste I onward rush’d, / And clasp’d her in my arms; / Encircled thus in fond embrace / Our panting hearts beat mutual love— / A rosy-red o’er spread her face / And brighten’d all her charms.’ _

Matt looked at his friend, mouth agape. Aaron, who’d given up protesting, sat on his bed and stared at the wall.

Matt continued, red-faced, “Oh look, he talks about getting  _ married _ first. Well that’s good, I suppose.”

At this, Aaron quickly rose from the bed and snatched the paper back. He’d caught Matt reading all sorts of things, and never  _ once _ questioned him.

“Oh, come on, Aaron, I’m being playful. I don’t care what you read.”

Aaron grunted, folding the letter and shoving it between his mattress, then locking eyes with Matt, “If you so much as think about touching my things again, I’ll--”

“--You’ll what?”

Aaron’s words failed him, and he punched his cousin on the shoulder. Matt reeled, and fell back onto his bed, laughing harder. After a beat, he stopped, and looked at his cousin. Aaron had not moved from his spot, and he dropped his gaze.

Matt lifted his back up, leaning on his elbows. “At first I thought it was one of Paterson’s dirty diatribes. I swear the old man writes to you once a week like a newlywed bride.”

Aaron tore his gaze from the floor, “That’s not funny.”

Matt shrugged, “Well, I’m just saying. You’ve gotten some strange letters before. How am I to know whether some old man is writing to you, lovesick.”

Aaron shot him another warning look, the unpleasant warmness returning to his face as his stomach churned. He stuck his hand back under his mattress and threw the folded paper at Matt, who caught it in midair.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want the stupid thing. Take it. Go have a laugh with your friends.” Aaron grabbed a pile of sleeping clothes from a chair nearby, and began to undress hastily.

He felt Matt’s presence behind him; “What’s gotten into you? I’m just having a bit of fun. Honestly, I’m more laughing at the fool who wrote it.”

“It is no matter. I don’t know why I kept the thing. Reverend Knox keeps going on about this boy from the Caribbean, some ward, that he wants to sponsor. Those are his writings.”

Matt’s eyes widened, “ _ Reverend Knox _ wrote this?”

Aaron struggled with a button, “No, you idiot. The  _ ward _ . He sent Knox a book full of his writings they’d published in some newspaper on St. Croix. He’s trying to raise money to send him to school.”

Matt stepped back, “Jesus. That makes a bit more sense. You almost made me faint.”

“I don’t think he’s read all of them. The writings, I mean.” Aaron said, throwing himself down into his mattress. “If he knew what was in them, I doubt he’d be as thrilled.”

“If this is the kind of thing they’re publishing in newspapers on St. Croix, I’ll hop on the next ship there,” Matt laughed to himself. Aaron closed his eyes, prepared for another sleepless night. 

He thought about the last time he’d seen Reverend Knox at the tiny Presbyterian church in town, jovial as always, talking to a group of men. Aaron sat in the back of the congregation, behind some much taller men. 

“So far, I have three hundred pounds, set aside in an account, for him. I do not think it will be enough, sadly,” the Reverend explained. 

One of the men chuckled, “Knox, if you want a few shillings, just come out with it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking!”

“Nonsense,” another man cut in, “I am always happy to help for a good cause. I trust your judgement of this boy. How old did you say he is?”

“Seventeen in January, if you can believe. You read his essays?” Knox asked the man. 

“I did. I was impressed, I must say.”

A third man interjected, reaching into his pocket, “Put me down for six pounds. Princeton needs a bit of new blood, if you ask me.”

Their voices faded into the background as the congregation milled around Aaron, and he lost track of their conversation in the din. This special ward from the Islands, writing poems about sex, tricking Reverends into giving him money. Aaron laughed to himself; he’d love to read that book. 

One after another older men presented themselves to the forefront of Aaron’s mind, like doorways, he tried turning each handle and each time was denied, or ridiculed, or shamed. It had always been this way. He absentmindedly rubbed his wrist, massaging it. He heard Matt ready himself for bed, quietly humming an indistinct tune.

He heard a book shut, then slid onto a shelf. He heard the scurrying of a rat or a squirrel on the roof. He heard the pop of the dying fire, the slow shuffle of his roommate undressing and getting into his own bed. Aaron shut his eyes, and the rhymes came to him. 

_ Celia’s an artful little slut; _

_ Be fond, she’ll kiss, et cetera—but _

_ She must have all her will; _

_ For, do but rub her ’gainst the grain _

_ Behold a storm, blow winds and rain, _

_ Go bid the waves be still. _

_ So, stroking puss’s velvet paws _

_ How well the jade conceals her claws _

_ And purrs; but if at last _

_ You hap to squeeze her somewhat hard, _

_ She spits—her back up—prenez garde; _

_ Good faith she has you fast. _

****

Reverend Knox’s sermon the week before echoed in Alexander’s ears as the storm bore down on the island. It was in moments of chaos that his mind traveled to odd places, repeating old phrases in his head, stupidly out of place. 

_ God has a plan for us all -- his ways are mysterious, but just -- we shall know neither the day nor the hour-- _

Outside, a loud crack split the air, and a tree fell in front of his window. He jumped back, swearing loudly. In the next second, the wind screamed, and the glass shattered. Alexander covered his face, but not quick enough to prevent several shards from slicing where his shoulder met his neck. He put a hand to his skin, and dodged beneath a heavy table. 

“Are you alright?” Thomas Stevens appeared, panting heavily, soaked. “I was just outside tying up the barn and heard you yelling-- your neck!”

The older man rushed over to Alexander, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it to the teenager’s neck. Alexander took it and held it there, the pain shooting through his face and shoulder in the next few seconds. 

“I’m fine-- I just--”

A loud clap of thunder interrupted them. Thomas joined the younger boy under the table. 

“Have you seen James?”

“He’s in the cellar making sure it doesn’t flood. He went down before the storm to make sandbags.” Alexander replied over the shrill wind. He poked his head out from the table. “I think the tree missed the house by a foot.”

The teenager stood carefully as another loud roll of thunder and bright forked lightning lit up the room. He stumbled as a gust of wind flew in through one window and out another, pushing him into a fallen bookshelf. He made his way to the adjacent room.

Outside, Alexander watched the rain blow sideways over the ocean, waves angrily slamming into exposed rocks. One of the docks was in the process of being detached from its posts and pulled back into the ocean. In the distance, he heard a woman scream, and a chill ran through his body. 

Alexander held the handkerchief in place, pressing it into skin until his fingers felt numb, water and blood mixing together and dripping down his clothes. Lightning split the ski again, striking a tree a mile down from them, lighting it on fire. He watched in horror as it crashed into a house, burning it to the ground despite the rain. In the next second, he heard more screams. 

“We have to get into the cellar,” Alexander said, quickly making his way back to Stevens. 

“What happened? What did you see?”

“The storm is about to be above us, directly.”

“I thought it was slowing--” Thomas said as the teenager grabbed him by the arm. 

“That is the way hurricanes blow. The wind is picking up in the opposite direction now. It is like a giant whirlpool above us,” Alexander shouted. He pulled the older man through the shaking house, white light and black shadows flickering intermittently, making it hard to see. 

The pair struggled with the cellar door, Alexander using his one free hand to tend to his wound. 

“James! Are you alright?” The teenager called once inside. His brother met them at the base of the stairs, covered in mud. The floor was covered in eight inches of sea water.

“What are you doing down here? This is going to flood. I was just about to come up to join you!” James yelled. Thunder cut off his last words, but Alexander knew what he was saying. 

“We can’t go up there. Lightening is hitting trees and setting them on fire. The Willis’ house down the road has just been hit.”

James opened his mouth to argue, when the cellar shook-- a loud, hellish crack rang out above them. 

“The house has been hit!” Thomas screamed, bringing a hand to his head. 

“We have to stay down here. James, help me move some of these sandbags. I believe the leak is coming from that corner, see the ripples?” Alexander used his free hand to point. 

“How are you going to move anything?” James shouted back. 

The teenager ignored him and made his way through the rising water, which was quickly making its way toward his knees, to the corner, shuffling sandbags with one hand. 

The three of them worked quietly, desperately-- avoiding any distractions as the storm raged around them. Alexander silently lamented that he was right when the wind picked up again in the opposite direction. Now, with the debris from the first round sufficiently loosened, the opposing wind was able to pick up these bits of wood, branches, carriage wheels, doors and barrels and toss them like projectiles at any living thing unfortunate enough to have wandered outside during the calm. 

Alexander heard two dull thuds above him, and a loud cry for help, before quiet, and he shook so hard he dropped a sandbag on his foot. 

“Careful!” James shouted, taking it from him. “Just go, I’ll finish up here.”

The trio lost track of time, huddled beneath the shuddering remains of their house. Alexander forgot how long he’d been holding the handkerchief to his neck. He drifted in and out of consciousness, waking when a particularly loud crash of thunder or shrieking wind hit the building. It felt like hours-- the darkness fell, and the storm raged into the night. After a while, Alexander woke with a start, only to realize it had settled to a pouring, gusty rain, the thunder rolling towards the south. 

He looked to his left and right, flanked by James and Thomas, who were still sleeping. He lifted a hand to his cheek, only to realize the blood had dried and the handkerchief was stuck to his skin. Wincing, he pulled it off slowly.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he whispered, feeling skin tearing. He hissed in pain. 

“Alexander?” James said softly in the dark. He heard several strikes of flint, and a candle was eventually lit, illuminating his older brother’s face. “Are you awake?”

“I am. Over here.”

The flame from James’ candle flickered as he turned, lighting the cellar. The water had somewhat receded, but the room was still wet, and freezing, and stank of dirt, fish and low tide. 

“Has the worst of it passed?” James asked. 

“I believe so. I can hear it heading west. 

Alexander strained to hear if anyone was moving above them and was met with silence. 

“We won’t know the extent of the damage until the morning.”

“I know. I cannot go back to sleep.”

James nodded, looking around him, “All that is left is to wait.”

Alexander began shivering, the skin at his neck pulsing and stretching with each jolt of his nerves, pain shooting through his body. He focused on a small crack on the wall in front of him, blocking out the frightful noises from the surrounding island.

****

Aaron hid the letter from Paterson in his pocket, careful not to arouse any jealousies from fellow students, lest they think he was getting special treatment. He scanned it briefly when it came, but decided he’d rather read it in private, when Matt was gone, so he could avoid answering any questions.

He shut his bedroom door behind him, unfolding it carefully. 

_ “Dear Burr, our mutual friend, Stewart, with whom I spent part of the evening, informed me you were still in Elizabethtown. You are much fonder of that place than I am, otherwise, you would hardly be prevailed upon to make so long a stay. But, perhaps, the reason that I fear it, makes you like it. There is certainly something amorous in its very air.” _

Amorous? In what way is this little spec on the map amorous? Aaron thought to himself. His eyes darted around the page.

He went cold.

Had  _ he _ heard about Hannah?

Aaron swallowed, reading on quickly to assuage his embarrassment.

_ “Yesterday I went to hear Mr. Halsey, and there, too, I saw his young and blooming wife. The old gentleman seems very fond of his rib, and, in good sooth, leers very wistfully at her as she trips along by his side. Some allowance, however, must be made; he is in the vale of life; love is a new thing to him, and the honey-moon is not yet over.” _

His stomach flipped, trying to recall the aforementioned Mrs. Halsey. He vaguely conjured an image of her in his mind; grew warm, bit his lip. He blushed and read on, adjusting himself in his hard seat.

_ “When the itch of scribbling seizes me, I hardly know when to stop. The fit, indeed, seldom comes upon me; but when it does, though I sit down with a design to be short, yet my letter insensibly slides into length, and swells perhaps into an enormous size--” _

Suddenly, the teenager felt light-headed. He folded the letter in half, unsure whether to read on. He felt embarrassed. In place of Mrs. Halsey, Paterson’s face came to mind; he saw the older man smiling handsomely, almost leering at him. 

_ “We will have to think of ways for you to pass your time at school.”  _ He heard Paterson say, and suddenly Aaron understood it all. 

_ “I know not how it happens, but on such occasions, I have a knack of throwing myself out on paper that I cannot readily get the better of. It is a sign, however, that I more than barely esteem the person I write to, as I have constantly experienced that my hand but illy performs its office unless my heart concurs.” _

Aaron felt his face burn, and wanted to put the letter down, but couldn’t bring himself to stop reading. It was like a novel he and Matt had come across in the back of the bookshop in town-- illustrations of men and women completely naked, diagrams and step-by-step instructions. The boys stared at it for several minutes, laughing at the expressions on the faces of the illustrations.

His eyes glazed over, remembering some of his favorite pictures. Aaron glanced at the clock-- he had an hour until Matt was due back. 

_ “The enclosed letter to Samuel Spring I commit to your care.” _

Aaron shook the paper and noticed another was stuck to it. He peeled the letter to Samuel off the one from Paterson and set it aside. 

_ “Do, dear Burr, get somebody who can write at least a passable hand to back it, for you give your letters such a sharp, slender, and lady-like cast, that almost everyone, on seeing them, would conclude there was a correspondence kept up between my honest friend Samuel and some of the female tribe, which might, perhaps, affect him extremely in point of reputation.” _

At this Aaron felt himself blush again, the warmness overtaking his entire body. He put the paper down and looked at his fingers, trying to discern why they could only create feminine designs. He put his palms together, threading his fingers, for a moment pretending they belonged to two different beings.

He looked back at the letter and smiled. 

_ “Platonic love is arrant nonsense, and rarely, if ever, takes place until the parties have at least passed their grand climacteric.” _

Aaron chuckled out loud, to himself. It was a line straight from the pornographic book he and Matt stumbled upon. 

“Grand climacteric,” the teenager repeated. “Wonderful.”

“Christ, not another dirty poem,” Matt announced, walking into the room. Aaron started, dropped the letter. He grabbed it before Matt could, shoving it into his bag. 

“Not a poem.”

“Well, you look like you’ve just been in the arms of Venus,” Matt said, dramatically, throwing his bag onto his bed, “You’re bright red.”

“I’m fine.”

Matt looked at him for a second, then rolled his eyes, “Okay.”

“Just drop it.” Aaron turned his chair and faced the other papers on his desk. 

“Drop what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not thinking about anything! What are you  _ talking _ about?” Matt let a confused grin play on his face. “Have you had a girl in here? While I was gone?”

Aaron ignored him and busied himself with several books, flipping through them absentmindedly, trying to get the image of Paterson out of his mind. 

“Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t care. Just promise me it wasn’t that prostitute who’s always staring at you, from the tavern. The one with the crooked tooth.”

_ The glittering sword is whetted, and held over her, and the pit hath opened its mouth under them. _

“Just shut up,” Aaron slammed a book shut, suddenly furious. “There’s no prostitute.”

Matt crossed his arms, countenance darkening, “You have been acting strange for weeks. I try to tell a joke, have a bit of fun, and you get so cross. What is the matter, for God’s sake?”

Aaron hid his clammy hands beneath his legs, sitting on them.

Matt continued, situating himself at his own desk, “I’ve just been to see Witherspoon. Well, me and Samuel. He asked about you, you know. Said there’s been reports of you daydreaming in class. You’ve got three weeks left. Can’t you at least pretend to care? He said he’s worried about you.”

“Samuel or Witherspoon?”

“ _ Witherspoon _ .”

“Fine. I can  _ pretend _ to care.” Aaron said petulantly. 

“You’re going to miss it when you’re gone, you know. It always happens like that.” Matt reasoned. He dipped a quill into some ink, then swore, “ _ Damn _ . Thing’s dried out.”

“I don’t miss anything. It’s useless to live in the past.” 

“That’s the spirit. It will do you good to keep it up when you’re buried in dusty tomes with Bellamy.”

A new, sinking feeling hit Aaron. Matt noticed. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to dampen your mood. You look like you’ve seen your own death.” Matt paused, then pressed on, “Come on. Out with it.”

Aaron turned in his seat, looking at him, “I don’t want to go. I can’t bear the thought of two more years of study. I am going to go insane.”

Matt sighed, “Well, I cannot say that I blame you. But if I had to choose between keeping my money and doing what Timothy says, and penury--”

“--Yes, yes. I know. I will make the best of it.” Aaron said, exhaling loudly. “I just wish there were no conditions. It’s my bloody money. Sally’s got  _ her _ inheritance.”

“Your sister was smart enough to get married. And be  _ born _ first,” Matt replied, looking back at his work. “Besides, she has to deal with Reeve and his absolute dearth of a personality so I wouldn’t exactly be jealous.”

“I am not jealous. Just...I don’t know,” Aaron trailed off, staring out the window. The late summer sun burned, warming him.

“Well, whatever it is, my advice is to just push on. Imagine the opportunities once you are done.”

Aaron grunted, noncommittally.

“Fine. I can plainly see you are in no mood for company,” Matt gathered his things, slightly put-out. Aaron ignored him. “I am going to head out into the courtyard and enjoy the good weather while it lasts, and you can lie there and sulk and think about what it is, exactly, that you want to do with the rest of your life.”

Aaron turned over, stubbornly, back to his cousin. He heard Matt let out a short, quiet laugh, and could almost see him shaking his head. He heard the door open and shut and was alone with his thoughts. It always happened like this -- he was never able to wander too deeply into the ocean of his mind for fear of the miserable creatures that lived there. 


	8. Aftermath

The hurricane left Cruger’s in such a state as to be unrecognizable-- four frames, shattered glass and broken roofing shingles. Newspapers and parchment soaked, stuck to half-broken walls. Years’ worth of bookkeeping floating in the ocean, coming in and out with the tide. Alexander couldn’t say he was pained to see them go, all the hours of drudgery gone in a single August night. 

The morning he and his brother left their cellar, he kept his eyes ahead, unable to bring himself to look around at the crying townspeople lifting debris, discovering bloated corpses. 

He closed his eyes and tried to breath in, to steady himself, and was hit with a stench of death so powerful he felt nauseous. Alexander covered his nose, and walked ahead. He adjusted the bandage on his shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. He managed to find a shirt in the rubble of Stevens’ house-- unsure whether it was his or James’-- he put it on, not caring. He looked at his old shirt, covered in seawater and dried blood, tossing it aside. 

There was nothing left. No stores. No Inn. No horses or other livestock. He turned to look away from a pig floating in a nearby pool that had formed outside a barn. 

It did not feel like St. Croix. It felt like a battlefield. He wondered how he would describe it to Ned, this sudden war-- then realized there was likely no ink or paper, left, either. 

“The best way is to try and regain a sense of normalcy,” Thomas said one day after the storm. He and James were helping to rebuild the house. “You should go see Cruger. Assess the damage.”

And so that what Alexander did, numb and silent.

Alexander looked around the shattered office: windows covered with fabric to keep the bugs out. Walls patched with cheap tar, broken shelves missing volumes-- and theirs was not the worst hit of the island.

The hurricane slammed into it from the north, lifting entire buildings and tossing them out to sea. Alexander remembered the receding tide, the screaming birds, the corpse-colored sand, from the evening before it hit. He’d seen it all before. And now--when he’d just begun to take seriously the prospect of leaving-- would the storm impede him--

_ Don’t be selfish. _

He stepped over a pile of wet books, making his way towards the shelves, to see if there was anything salvageable. To his surprise, a single box with several quills and a dry block of ink sat in the corner of one of the taller shelves-- the small teenager made a make-shift stepstool out of some wood, and retrieved them. 

A knock on the door rang out in the wet air. Alexander turned, and was relieved to see Mags standing there.

“Hello, sir. I came as soon as I could,” Mags stepped into the room, looking down at the mess of papers and books that had been destroyed. They bent down, and picked up a water-logged case of writings. Alexander recognized it as the transcripts Mags created weeks before. He felt his shoulders sag. 

“All this hard work. Hours. Months… gone.”

Mags shook their head, “This is not the worst of it. The inn on the far side of the island lost its roof. The innkeeper's wife is missing.”

Alexander rubbed his eyes. Mags continued, “Do you need help cleaning this up?”

“I don’t know where to begin.” Alexander looked around, overwhelmed. He felt helpless, overcome with a longing to record the tragedy. “The newspaper will want an account of this, from different merchants. They always have letters from residents.”

Mags began picking up wet piles of books, placing them on the nearest table, “Will you write one?”

“I don’t know. What can I say?” Alexander looked at Mags. “How can I express  _ this _ ?”

The pair looked around again, and Alexander noticed a dry book wedged behind the bookshelf. He reached for it, and flipped through, letting the blank pages blur in his vision.

He spread the paper out on the desk in the office, wood still water-logged and stinking from the rain. He grabbed a stretch of dry fabric from the floor, a fallen curtain, and carefully placed it atop the wet surface to protect the ink from running. Taking a quill, he stared at the blank, rain-splotched parchment, and then quieted his mind enough to focus.

_ “I take up my pen just to give you an imperfect account of one of the most dreadful Hurricanes that memory or any records whatever can trace, which happened here on the 31st ultimo at night.”  _ Alexander began. 

Mags worked around him, picking up wet books one by one, placing them on the adjacent table. 

Alexander sat in the nearest chair, ignoring the wet wood against his back. He thought about Knox, and wondered if the Reverend would like to hear the account. It would give him a reason to write, to remind Knox that he was still here, waiting to be rescued. 

“You should address the letter to someone. That’s how they always are in the papers,” Mags hoisted a wooden box of books onto the shelves. “Written to some old Greek or Roman I’ve never heard of. Elizabeth tried to get me to memorize their speeches.”

Alexander chuckled to himself, “Yes. It is easy to confuse them all. What about a letter to Reverend Knox?”

Mags shook their head, yes, but clarified, “Knox already knows about the hurricane, no doubt. It wouldn’t make sense to address a letter to him in the papers.” 

Alexander muttered to himself. He thought for a second, and then, in a moment of grim satisfaction, addressed the letter to his father. 

“Surely James Hamilton will want to know what we’ve been up to,” Alexander said under his breath. He let the words spill forth like he always did, not checking for errors or misspellings.

For a moment, he stopped, a wash of cold coming over him. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the scrap of paper with his mother’s seashell drawings on them that he’d been carrying for almost three years, tucked away like a memory.

Alexander clenched his jaw, and his cheek throbbed. A tiny pang of guilt hit him as he remembered all the times he’d been short with Cruger, or James, or Peter, letting his temper and frustration get the better of him. This time, he siphoned his anger and frustration into the paper before him.

After a while, Mags pulled up a chair next to him, “Do you need a proof-reader?”

Alexander finished the last word of his letter, and put the quill down. He scanned his page, then handed it to the other teenager. Like before, Alexander watched nervously as Mags poured over the document, peeling at his hangnails. 

“You mention James Hamilton. I assume he is your father?” Mags asked, matter-of-factly. Alexander faltered. 

“Yes. Yes, that is my father. I thought maybe--”

“--You should remove his name, I think.”

Alexander looked at the other teenager, then back at his work, suddenly defensive, “Well, I want him to know what I’ve been through. What he’s left me with, here.”

Mags tilted their head, “The implication being…?”

“No implication.”

“This letter… it is angry. If your father knew it was to him specifically, he will feel guilt at your situation. Perhaps other Nevisians will recognize his name. He might have negative attention drawn on him. Do you want that?” Mags looked at Alexander, raising their eyebrows. 

“It is his fault that my brother and I are in this mess. He left us with nothing, and now he will see how dire things are.” Alexander crossed his arms. 

Suddenly, Mags’ temperament darkened, “You are lucky to be alive. You are lucky to even  _ know _ your father, to know where he resides. This is petulant.” 

Mags placed the letter down on the table, and Alexander watched them, unable to articulate a response. For a few seconds, he watched silently as Mags continued cleaning up around him. 

“I will just title it something like, ‘A Resident of The Island Addressing his Father’.”

“Yes, that is better. Keep it anonymous.”

Alexander nodded again, setting to work. 

He scrawled out what he could, desperately trying to transform the pain, the wind, the water, the screaming ocean, into something black and white and flat--and his head throbbed. 

Mags worked quietly around him, their own thoughts hidden. The ledgers and official papers lay in tatters around them. Mags looked at Alexander, then down at the slip of paper in their hands, half-torn and blurred by rainwater. Mags furtively shoved it in their pocket, and continued with the work.

****

The next two weeks went by in a haze, and Alexander felt like he could not fully catch his breath. 

It started with Reverend Knox making his rounds on the island, taking inventory of the storm.

“Yours isn’t even the worst hit,” he said sadly, looking around Cruger’s office one afternoon in early September. Mags and Alexander stood behind him, proud of the work they’d done to clean it up. Knox touched a curtain.

“The blacksmith lost his son and daughter. There was a wave that came in just down there,” Knox continued, shaking his head. He raised a hand and indicated a mile down the beach, “It came in so fast-- and swept them out to sea.”

Alexander looked quietly at the ocean, now calm and sparkling in the late summer sun. He shuddered.

“How is he faring?” Mags asked.

“He is trying to rebuild. His wife, though...She has been unable to leave her bed. I fear she may die of a broken heart,” Knox walked to the window and stared out of it. “I have never seen such a storm. Alexander, your letter was powerful.”

“I am glad you liked it, Reverend.”

Knox turned back around, “Not just me, but many.  _ The Royal Danish American Gazette _ has asked permission to publish it. They think it might provide solace to those who were affected so terribly.”

“They...want to publish it?” He asked.

“They do-- you wouldn’t mind, would you? The residents of St. Croix could use some affecting prose. Many of them do not know how to put their feelings into words, like you do.”

Alexander stole a glance at Mags, who widened their eyes and nodded affirmatively. He didn’t have time to say no-- and the next week his words were in print. 

He held the paper in front of him, taking a break from the ledgers sprawled out on his desk and the depressing realities of rebuilding after a storm, reading and rereading the words again and again.

_ I take up my pen just to give you an imperfect account of one of the most dreadful Hurricanes that memory or any records whatever can trace, which happened here on the 31st ultimo at night-- _

“May I come in?”

Alexander turned and saw the Reverend behind him.

“I hope I am not disturbing your work, Little Hamilton!”

“Not at all,” Alexander folded the paper, and placed it under his arm. Knox grinned broadly. He continued. 

“I am not supposed to tell you this until next month, but I have some wonderful news that is too good to keep to myself,” Knox indicated that Alexander sit down, and the teenager acquiesced. “I have it on good authority that since the publishing of your letter, the requisite funds have been raised for you to travel to Boston in mid-October, to inquire into some formal schooling there!”

Alexander felt lightheaded and was glad he was sitting down. He felt an involuntary smile spread across his face. 

“ _ What _ ?”

“Yes!” Knox walked over to him, arms outstretched. He grabbed the teenager by the shoulders, lifting him into a hug. Alexander dropped the paper to the floor, Knox put the teenager down, “You must prepare yourself. Get your trunks gathered now, so that you may leave on the first available ship.”

Alexander looked around him, “What do I bring? I don’t have much.”

“I will put together a case of books.”

“The money… do I need to have it in my possession? What about Cruger? Does he know? This place is in such disarray, and he is still gone in New York, and so ill--”

Knox chuckled, “One question at a time Little Hamilton. One, your passage has been bought for you already. If I have my dates correct, the next trip to Boston is October seventeenth. Cruger will be fine. There are plenty on this Island who can mind the store until his return at the end of the month.”

Alexander began to pace, “Boston… where am I to go once I get there?”

“You will meet up with a friend of mine, Reverend Rodgers.”

“I have not heard the name,” the teenager replied absentmindedly.

“You will like him. He is kind and generous and will help you get acquainted with the area.”

“Thank you,” Alexander said. He picked up the newspaper off the floor and handed it back to the reverend. Knox shook his head. 

“No, that is yours to keep! You can show it to your own children one day, as a memory of your achievements.”

After some more congratulating, the reverend made it known that he had other business in town and left the teenager to his own thoughts. Alexander spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, unable to concentrate. 

At five pm, Mags emerged from the cellar, looking down at a list, “Looks like we are completely out of flour. The bags we have left are destroyed. Full of sea water.”

Alexander looked up with a start from a letter he was writing, “Oh!”

“Did I scare you?” Mags grinned, grabbing their coat from the wall. “Sorry.”

“No, I was just--” he looked down at his words, an excited scrawl to Ned.

“Who’s it for? Do you need me to proofread?” 

“Just a bit of verse. Nothing good. I will probably throw it out.”

“Nonsense. Let me see,” Mags walked over and took the letter from Alexander before he could hide it. They read the opening lines; Alexander watched as Mags’ face turned from polite interest to realization. 

“You’re…” Mags started, “...The reverend has raised money for you to leave?”

Alexander was quiet for a moment, nodding. Mags sat down in a nearby chair.

“That’s...wonderful,” they said. 

“I know. I couldn’t believe it myself,” Alexander sat in the adjacent chair, “He actually did it.”

Suddenly, Alexander was lost in thought, the room disappearing around him as the idea of a new life, and the enormity of it filled his mind. 

“He’s been talking about it for so long-- he mentioned the idea to me last year! And now, it’s finally come to fruition. I am to meet a man named Reverend Rodgers in Boston. From there, who knows? Reverend Knox is inquiring into the details. He wasn’t supposed to tell me yet, but he was so excited. I leave in about six weeks’ time,” Alexander said in one breath. 

Mags cleared their throat.

“Well. I am happy for you.” They stood to leave, folded the letter and handed it back to Alexander, abruptly.

He took it, “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t seem excited.” Alexander let a half-smile play on his mouth, “This is monumental! I will be able to study at a proper school! No more of this provincial bookkeeping.”

Mags set their jaw, “As I said, I am happy for you. Congratulations.”

A pause ensued, and Mags spoke again, “I am sure you will do wonderful things with your life.”

They could not hide the bitterness in their voice, and Alexander noticed. 

“Mags-- what is wrong?”

“I am tired.”

Alexander sighed, “Please, do not worry about me. I will come back and visit! Once I am settled, and I have a career and money, I can come back, and--”

“--That is not the point.”

Mags crossed their arms and stared at Alexander expectantly. He waited. Mags rolled their eyes, exasperated. 

“You get to leave this place, and I  _ don’t. _ I do not belong here, either! Don’t you think I would trade anything to have what you do?”

“I thought you would be happy for me-- I didn’t know you were jealous--”

“--Of course I am jealous!” Mags’ voice broke, and they steadied themselves. They closed their eyes, inhaling deeply. “I want to leave, too. But no one has offered to help  _ me _ , or raise money for  _ my _ schooling. Not only that, but you are to leave me here alone, the only person here who has shown me any courtesy.”

Alexander was silent for a second. He thought quickly, “Mags, I am sorry. I should not have been so callous. What if I were to send you money? Once I get there. I will send you enough so that you may join me one day.”

Mags shook their head, “As soon as you are gone, I am in danger.”

The two teenagers were quiet. Mags stared at the floor, and Alexander stared at Mags. The elation he felt at being offered a ticket to a new life dissipated as he looked at his friend. Mags reached for their small leather bag, sitting slumped on the floor against the wall. 

“I am going home for the day. I will see you tomorrow,” they said quietly, leaving the office without looking back. 

He watched Mags leave, unsure how to react. He walked back to the window, leaning on the sill, staring at the setting sun. 

****

Aaron tried to disseminate the genius Reverend Knox had pointed to when he sent the newspaper to him. Knox was excited as always, proud of the  _ genius _ he’d raised money for. 

“Four hundred pounds!” Knox said, gathering a small crowd as he always did at the Presbyterian church. “Four hundred pounds raised, in less than a few months. It is a miracle, I tell you.”

Aaron read the hurricane letter sixteen times since he’d gotten  _ The Royal Danish American Gazette _ \--a topic of discussion by the old reverend in one of their dinners. It had taken multiple attempts for Aaron to mentally meander through the thick, effusive prose. It was  _ nothing _ like the dirty poems. He was sullen.

Knox worked on his second plate of pie, and placed a fork down, “You will see what I mean when you meet him. The boy is a genius.”

There was that word again.  _ A genius? _ \-- a genius at dirty limericks and over-zealous language. As if reading Aaron’s mind, Matt let out a bark of laughter, which Knox quieted with a fork pointed in the younger boy’s direction.

“Do not be rude.” He took a sip of wine, cheeks high-colored with mirth, “He will most likely arrive in Boston in three weeks’ time. From there, he will take the bi-weekly stagecoach to New York City where I have arranged for him to stay with my friend Dr. Mason. After that he will attend Princeton.”

Aaron looked up, “Oh?”

“Is that all you have to say? I thought you would be thrilled, Little Burr! Have you read the letter in its entirety?” The forked scraped the pewter plate unpleasantly. “I thought you’d enjoy it. Reminded me of your essay on passions!”

“Many times, Reverend.”

The table fell into silence, punctuated only by Knox’s loud chewing. Matt smiled into his plate of food, relishing in the awkwardness. Aaron spoke up again:

“If you will permit me an opinion on the matter, Reverend?”

Knox looked at him and raised a hand to concede the floor. Aaron swallowed, then spoke.

“It is quite common for those who are ambitious of excelling in composition to overuse swelling words and epithets. Especially for young writers. It seems that the young man you know from St. Croix...” Knox raised his eyebrows, and Aaron continued, “I mean to say-- this boy you are sponsoring-- he sounds--”

“--Insufferable,” Matt cut in, laughing into his lap.

The Reverend’s gaze turned dark, and he looked at each boy in turn, “You do not know his troubles, nor he yours. Be kind, Little Burr.”

Matt nodded, trying to be polite, “Oh, yes, Reverend. I understand. I suppose I can admit his use of imagery was...er... imaginative.”

Aaron pushed a piece of bread around his plate half-heartedly, trying to hide a smile.

_ How well the jade conceals her claws. _

Knox was satisfied with this; “For a self-educated clerk from a Caribbean backwater, the boy is miles ahead of most at his age and in his situation. Did you know he ran a shop by himself for six months while the owner was away?”

Aaron grinned to himself; In truth he thought the Hurricane Letter, as they’d taken to calling it, sounded like something his miserable Calvinist grandfather would preach. Perhaps that was why Knox found the little genius’s words so astounding. 

_ The vast multitudes are easily broken in pieces. They are as great heaps of light chaff before the whirlwind; or large quantities of dry stubble before devouring flames. We find it easy to tread on and crush a worm-- _

Aaron shook the paper, flattening it. Who was the vile worm? He frowned, studying, turning his head. 

_ So it is easy for us to cut or singe a slender thread that any thing hangs by. _

_ Is it ever--  _ Aaron wondered what sort of blade had sliced this teenager, what sorts of his threads had been singed, what connections had been ruthlessly cut-- wondered if Reverend Edwards had meant to describe the human condition as though it were being whipped around in a constant storm.

After dinner, Aaron sat by himself on his bed and poured over the letter again.

He pretended the letter was written to him, specifically, and it made him smile a little. He’d never experienced a hurricane.

He imagined the young man, his same age, speaking the words to his face instead of writing them, and the type of person who would use such colorful hyperbole. 

“I am afraid, Sir, you will think this description more the effort of imagination than a true picture of realities. But I can affirm with the greatest truth, that there is not a single circumstance touched upon, which I have not absolutely been an eyewitness to.”

Aaron read and re-read this phrase, and decided it was his favorite bit.

“Believe me,” he heard Alexander Hamilton plea, “This is no exaggeration. I am telling the truth!” Aaron decided that in the coming weeks, he’d find time to go to Elizabethtown and introduce himself to the genius.

****

Mags had disappeared, And Alexander was at a loss. 

He came to the office the next morning, and they were not there. He quietly went about the daily business, worked until late into the night, and Mags did not show. 

He came the next day, and the day after that-- still, no Mags. 

Alexander received three letters: one from Cruger, congratulating him. One from Knox, who’d been in New Jersey preparing things for the new transplant, and one from Ned. No word from Mags. 

No one around him seemed to care that they’d disappeared. No one asked about Mags, and Alexander worked double shifts to cover up their absence. He looked up in excitement every time someone walked through the door, hoping it was Mags. He stared out the window, watching the passersby, trying to spot them. 

He began to worry. He looked at the calendar; the ship was set to leave in two days’ time. He grabbed an older, kindly-looking merchant sailor at the dock who’d been there and worked with him before.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you have a moment?”

The old man smacked his lips, looking around, “Me?”

“Yes. I was wondering if I could ask you a rather serious question.”

“I suppose,” the old man wheezed, revealing several missing teeth. “It’s not about the bloody wheat, is it? I told you and that fool Cruger, the rats just  _ show up _ , nothin’ can be done about it--”

Alexander dropped his voice, “--No, no, it’s not that. There is a boy who works with me. He is African. Do you know who I am talking about?”

The old man nodded, and Alexander continued, “Well, he has gone missing. He has not been at work for the past four days.”

“Thought I saw someone matchin’ that description last night, walkin’ up the docks, carrying a bag, looked like. Thought he was a delivery boy.”

“He is,” Alexander lied. “He was delivering letters for me. Which way did he go?”

The old man lifted a bony finger, and Alexander was off.

****

“Is that everything, then?” Matt put his hands in his pockets, looking around the small, now empty dorm. A few boxes sat open by the door, most of what was in the room already packed and sent back to their childhood home. Aaron nodded mutely. 

“I believe so.”

“I can see the excitement so plainly on your face,” Matt replied wryly. 

“Have you heard anything else from Uncle Timothy? Or Reverend Knox?” Aaron asked, sitting on the bare bed frame. 

“Thinking you’ll get a last-minute pardon?”

Aaron rolled his eyes, “No. I am to meet them in town early tomorrow and I wanted to know if they sent word about any funds.”

Matt let out a low sigh, “Oh. I see.”

Aaron waited for a moment, staring at his cousin, then the floor. Matt spoke up again. 

“You keep asking if Uncle Timothy has sent you more money but won’t tell him why you’re in such dire straits. Either you tell him the whole story so he can reimburse you, or he’ll just assume the worst and only send you enough to get to Bethlehem to visit with Bellamy, and nothing more.”

“He doesn’t need to know everything. I am fine with him sending just enough to cover carriage fare. I am certain Dr. Bellamy will be more forgiving and generous than dear old Timothy.”

Matt threw his hands up, “Well, in that case. No, there hasn’t been any change of plans. You’re to meet them tomorrow in town so we can all see you off to Connecticut. It will be such a darling scene.”

Aaron shot his cousin a look, then realized it was no use. Matt didn’t seem to notice, only remarking once that he seemed more studious. 

“And now-- when you’re done with school-- do you suddenly get a burst of inspiration. Unbelievable.”

Aaron didn’t have the heart to tell him what his plan was, or why he felt so dejected. He walked out of their room, determined to see the dean. He knew Witherspoon wasn’t the kind to allow students to come visit him whenever they wanted, but Aaron didn’t care.

He made his way through the cold, dimly lit corridors until he found the dean’s office.

“Are you going to skulk in that doorway all evening or are you going to come in?” Dr. Witherspoon spoke without looking up from the thick tome he was flipping through. The old gentleman sat behind his desk, several candles lit and flickering in the dying light, obviously in the middle of a long paper or diatribe. 

Aaron nodded to himself and made his way into the older man’s office. 

“I hope I am not bothering you, Dr. Witherspoon.”

“Of course you are, Burr,” finally, the older man looked pointedly at Aaron, indicating to the large stacks of paper, “but we make exceptions, do we not?”

Witherspoon waited, then sighed, “What is it, Aaron? Do spit it out. Students are not meant to be in this area after classes are finished.”

Aaron stepped forward, took a seat carefully, “I know, sir, but I just--”

“--The rules do not apply to you, do they?”

“Sir, I wanted to apologize for my behavior of late,” Aaron tried, biting the inside of his cheek, “I have not been feeling myself, and I am embarrassed.”

Witherspoon regarded him cynically. Then, “The Cliosophic Society is a revered institution that has been around decades longer than you have and will outlast us all. Your bratty little joke played on Mr. Isaac was uncalled for and rude. He should revoke your membership, frankly.”

“I wanted to apologize for that, too--”

The older man huffed, crossed out a line on his parchment, looking down, “You humiliated him in front of his students for what? A few minutes’ tardiness? You’re lucky he is an easy grader. I’ve seen some of the drivel you’ve been writing.” 

Aaron continued.

“--I should have put more effort into my studies. But the topics do not interest me.”

Witherspoon put his quill back into the inkwell, his expression inscrutable, as he fixed his gaze on the young pupil. He narrowed his eyes. 

“That is just the way things are, Burr. We do not get to always do things our way.”

Aaron lowered his gaze, and then steeled his resolve, “I just think that...well. If pupils were allowed to choose their topics of essay, the results would be--”

“--A hodgepodge of nonsense, is what it would be.” Witherspoon, despite his large stack of papers, gave his full attention to Aaron.

Aaron studied the older man, wondered if he’d had similar conversations with his own father. 

“There seems to be an element of falsity.” Aaron offered cryptically. He waited, and watched the old man lose his resolve to ignore the pupil. 

“ _ Fine _ , Burr. You have my full attention.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his fingers across his stomach. The faintest shadow of a smile crept across his dry features.

Aaron shifted in his chair, “What I mean is-- the religiousity on campus is-- palpable. But it seems to me to be for show, for these essays, rather than a pure movement of the heart. I just think that if students were allowed to explore the topics at their own pace the results would be more impressive.”

Witherspoon blinked twice, unsure he was understanding the pupil, “So you are doing the job of the president, now? My God, I knew you took after your father, but I didn’t think your pride would rear its ugly head so bloody soon.”

Aaron took another leap, ignoring the dig, “There is the fire and brimstone but for what? High marks and  _ accolades _ ?” 

Witherspoon rubbed his temples. Aaron watched him. Yes, he was sure the old doctor had heard it all before. Aaron thought to himself. The overwrought prose and empty prayer ends with him.

“Burr, I know you think the rules do not apply to you, but that is exactly why you must apply yourself to these lessons.  _ Temperance _ , Burr. It is not enough to regurgitate what you think your tutors want to hear, but rather you must synthesize the knowledge and make it your own. Do you understand me?”

“But to what end?” Aaron pressed his luck with the older man. He saw a flicker of annoyance in the old eyes. “To what purpose, if I do not fully  _ believe  _ any of it?”

Witherspoon looked at the younger pupil, eyes narrowed and suspicious, “What is this about, Burr?”

“I have been thinking, that is all.”

“It sounds like laziness, pure and simple. You are tired of studying and will find any excuse in the world not to do it. I was your age, too. I know how your mind works.”

Aaron bit the inside of his lip--  _ No, you don’t. _

Witherspoon continued, “If this is about studying with Dr. Bellamy, you have my answer. Both you and Knox agreed,  _ last year _ , that this would be your path. You cannot back out now.”

Aaron rolled his eyes as Witherspoon grabbed his quill, making some notes. He continued, “If you are serious about this religious crisis, I would think a few months with Bellamy would do you some good--”

“--I would like to speak to anyone with authority on the subject.”

Another flicker of emotion-- this time, anger--flashed in the old man’s eyes, “Burr-- I am serious, do not test me. I am in no mood.”

Aaron held his tongue. He waited for Witherspoon to continue talking. The older man sighed and pulled a blank parchment from a stack on a short shelf behind him. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and began writing. 

“You will make the day’s journey to Bethlehem, where you will present your hesitations to Dr. Bellamy. You will stay with him for a while and ask him all the infernal questions you like, for he has the patience and time, and I do not.” With a flourish, Witherspoon signed his name at the bottom of the page, and put his quill bank into the pot with a small clink.

Witherspoon looked up from his work, and continued, “This will be your last chance, do you understand? Any more antics and I will personally see to it that you will not graduate from this institution. I don’t care who your father was.”

Aaron stood and nodded, staring at the old man defiantly.


	9. Dawn

Knox hadn’t spoken to Alexander since their last encounter. He had mentioned, briefly, needing to finalize some of the details of Alexander’s trip-- he was distractible and busy-- and Alexander did not want to ruin his chances of getting to Boston by asking stupid questions. 

The questions felt childish and exposing.

_ What sort of clothing should I bring? Will I need books? How do I get on the ship-- will they know who I am? Where was Mags? _

Alexander shook his head quietly to himself. He looked around furtively in the tiny, empty office on the dark October evening. He caught a glimpse of the ship outside, parked in the harbor, gentle rocking in the waves. In twenty-four hours, he would be on it.

He didn’t think about the ocean at all. Every negative image that cropped into the corners of his mind was drowned by excitement. 

_ This is it, Little Hamilton,  _ he heard Knox say,  _ This is the last ship of the season.  _

Alexander’s nerves kicked in. He walked over to the bookshelf and grabbed three empty journals. 

The implication was, as Alexander understood it, that if he did not take this trip, he would be set back a year, maybe more, and it would become harder and harder to find a school and tutors that would take him on. Knox had been specific about that. 

“Shall I lie about my age?” Alexander asked on the last night he’d seen the reverend on the island. 

Knox let out a loud bark of laughter, not unfriendly, “That may work  _ here _ , Little Hamilton-- but not in Boston.”

Alexander blushed at the memory.  _ No, of course not.  _

He hitched his bag up on his shoulder, and made his way back to the Stevenses. When he arrived, James was gone.

“Working late,” Thomas said, stoking the fire. 

“Will I see him before tomorrow?”

Thomas inhaled, kicked a coal back into the hearth, then turned and looked at Alexander, “He may not be home until long after midnight. If you stay awake, perhaps.”

Alexander nodded, and made his way to his bedroom. 

No one seemed to  _ care _ . 

The island, as a whole, Alexander noticed, seemed to take some interest in him. The eyes that followed him after the death of his mother, filled with judgement and curiosity, where the same ones that followed him now. He met them haughtily. 

_ I am leaving, and you are staying.  _

“You’re not better than them, you know,” was the last thing he remembered James saying to him. He was sweating, reeking of wood shavings again, dirty and angry, “You can sail all over the world, but you’ll always be this--” he motioned to the decaying town, fetid and still stinking of corpses and low tide. Alexander felt his throat tighten.

No, it was late. James would be home soon, and he would confront his brother then. He shut his eyes, laying on his mattress. Around him, tiny gnats buzzed, landing on his face intermittently and making him itch. The clock in the square-- the first thing to be fixed after the storm-- chimed eleven. 

_ Twenty-four hours more.  _

Watercolors, Alexander thought, as he closed his eyes. The blurry rain, the running ink, the water-logged buildings, brightly colored curtains fluttering in the breeze, splashing the mess around him with pops of different hues-- it looked like runny paint. He felt as though he were in a dream: poorly constructed and discordant. A gnat landed on his arm and he smacked it; back to reality. 

_ It seemed as if a total dissolution of nature was taking place. The roaring of the sea and wind, fiery meteors flying about it in the air, the prodigious glare of almost perpetual lightning, the crash of the falling houses, and the ear-piercing shrieks of the distressed, were sufficient to strike astonishment into Angels. _

Alexander turned on his side, unable to sleep due to...excitement? Fear? He struggled with a word for several agonizing minutes, until he was able to catch his breath and slow it.

He slipped into a dreamlike state, imagined dipping a paintbrush into brackish water, lifting it and splashing red blood across a sand-colored canvas. 

_ My heart bleeds, but I have no power to solace. _

His body jumped-- a startling, falling sensation--and he opened his eyes.

_ The warring elements are reconciled and all things promise peace...oh, my soul, look back and tremble. _

When Alexander awoke, the sun was burning, blisteringly hot through his curtains and stuffy room. The air was dry, and the gnats had dispersed. He shot up in bed, heart racing. Alexander swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran to the window, as he struggled with his breeches; the ship was still there, waiting. It had not left him. 

“Alexander-- are you awake?” He heard Thomas’ voice at the door, “It is nearly ten, my boy. You mustn’t lay around.”

“No, no-- I am awake,” Alexander managed, eyes darting from object to object in the tiny bedroom. James’ bed was empty, and his heart sank. “I am coming--”

He grabbed his bag, swinging the door open.

“Where is James?”

Thomas’ put his hand on Alexander’s back, “Do not worry, Alexander. I received a note from the blacksmith that James was working through the night on a project for him. He is fine.”

“No, I want to see him before I leave--”

Thomas led Alexander into the kitchen; the smell of freshly baked bread made the teenager’s stomach grumble. 

“Who will see me off? Am I to travel to the ship alone?”

“No, of course not.” Thomas laughed at him; Alexander took note of the stupid question, shrinking in his seat. “James has made a promise to come see you. The Reverend will be there. I am certain some townspeople will come to gawk, you know how they are--”

“--Mags?” Alexander asked, through a mouthful of bread.

Thomas frowned, “Who?”

“The African boy that helped me at Cruger’s.”

The older man shrugged, “I am sorry, Alexander, I do not know him.”

Alexander stared into his plate of food. He felt Thomas hit him, playfully.

“Look alive, Alexander!”

“I am nervous.”

“You will make your way to the ship as soon as you are finished eating. I believe she departs this afternoon, with the right tides.”

Alexander dragged his bread around his plate, picking up the crumbs; imagined it like a wave, crushing tiny people. He grinned, manic. 

****

Aaron wandered through the back of the library after dark, swiping a finger along the dusty books, wondering when the last time anyone had paid them any attention. Surely it had been years. He coughed, stifled it, pausing as his throat itched. He wanted to clear it but didn’t want to let anyone know he was there. 

He snuck out of the dorm easily enough.

Aaron smiled to himself; that seemed to be his favorite thing to do, now. Sneaking around at night. It would be funny if it weren’t so... _ pathetic _ , he could almost hear Matt say. 

What on earth would his peers say, if they were to spot him stalking the archives filled with words from his own family? The thought made him cringe. It was almost comical. 

Aaron pulled one book off the shelf, flipped through it. 

It was a strange thing: knowing people only through the black ink that covered the thin pages. Aaron viewed his family as a curiosity. Separate from him. He squinted at the words in front of him, taking a fingernail to a speck of dirt on the page. He scratched too hard, and the ink came off. 

_ “Shit--” _ he swore quietly, shoving it back into his place. He looked around. 

He imagined, if he were able to draw, scratching a thin black line delineating one person from another. The skeleton of a body. The frame of a house, perhaps. An empty shape, waiting to be filled in. Aaron grabbed another book, flipping it open. 

He looked down, finding a seat nearby. He brought his feet up beneath him. 

In this place where the ghosts of who he was supposed to be resided, Aaron skirted the line between sadness and distraction.

The words on the page were violent-- flames and screams, a punishment for humanity-- the words his Uncle had read to him and his cousins thousands of times, to instill in them both a fear and a respect for their grandfather and the religion he preached. 

_ Was it real--? _

Aaron adjusted himself in the firm cushion. It certainly felt real enough. 

_ What does it feel like? _

Fire. The charred remains of a tall building. Black posts, ash smoking in a grey sky. 

_ The fire pent up in their own hearts is struggling to break out. _

Aaron matched the two in his mind: the fathomless ocean, whipping cold fury against a small, defenseless island, and fire-- reigning down on an unsuspecting congregation, reducing them to nothing.

He hated the words. Unforgiving and relentless; he hated that the only memory he had of his grandfather was one of anger and destruction and vengeance. He longed to speak with the man, but these words were not inviting a conversation. This was not a man he could ever know and yet he was connected to it, born into it without a choice. He dropped the book on the ground and kicked it under the stacks to be left there until someone found it by chance. Maybe never. 

Aaron walked over to the newspapers that the library kept on hand, browsing the different realities of the different colonies. 

He pulled out the latest issue of  _ The Royal Danish American Gazette _ , the one that Knox had brought with him days ago, dumping it into his hands like a cat with a dead bird. He told him to give it to the libraries, for reference, for safekeeping. _ It is of great import that we keep records of these things, Aaron. You will want to look back on them. Words are the only things we have tying us to our realities.  _

The teenager looked down at his thumb, the cheap ink from the newspaper rubbing off on it. He wiped it on his breeches. 

****

Alexander wondered if this was to be the last time he would burn his eyes in the tropical sun, squinting, trying to take it all in. He wished there was a way to memorize it all-- the well-wishers, the curious children, even the gruff sailors had taken a moment to stop by and pat him on the back. Some women had baked him bread and brought him snacks. Others had made his scarves and shirts. 

He took a package from an elderly woman who smiled at him, toothless, kissing him on the head, and his eye caught the shape of a person darting behind barrels.

“If you’ll excuse me, madame,” Alexander muttered, giving a slight bow to the old woman and thanking her for the package. He followed the figure, weaving behind stacks of lumber and wood shipping containers-- “Hey! Wait--”

He reached the figure, grabbing the cloak, and pulling it off. Mags stared back at him, wide-eyed. In a flash, they put a finger to their mouth.

“Mags--” Alexander whispered. He looked behind his shoulder, then back at the other teenager, an involuntary grin spreading across his face, “What are you...where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you--”

“--Alexander, be quiet,” Mags whispered, hushed. 

They pulled Alexander to another stack of cargo, nearly six feet tall, dwarfing the two teenagers. 

“I am going to sneak onto the ship, and go to Boston,” Mags said. “I spent the last few weeks hiding out, gathering supplies. I need you to refer to me as just ‘M’, if at all. I think there is a place below deck I can hide until we are out in open ocean.”

“They’ll throw you overboard,” Alexander replied, eyes widening. 

“Not if you vouch for me, they won’t. Tell them Knox sent me with you. They’ll never know the difference,  _ trust me,” _ Mags locked eyes with him. “I helped you with your poems and books. Do this for me.”

He nodded silently, and watched as they boarded the ship, bent over, walking behind the cargo. His eyes followed them until they disappeared, and his gaze was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. 

Alexander turned and saw his brother.

“James--”

“What are you doing back here? They’re going to think you’re a thief,” James said. His eyes narrowed, scanning his younger brother. 

“I was just-- I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“The ship is leaving port in ten minutes. I overheard the captain.”

Alexander studied his brother: James’ stern face, creased and tanned and aged from working in the sun.

“You have to go now, or they’re going to--”

Alexander cut him off, pulling him into a hug, his throat tightening. James squeezed him.

“Alex, come on-- don’t tell me you’re  _ scared _ .”

“I’m never going to see you again.” His voice was muffled.

“You don’t know that,” James reasoned, but Alexander could hear his brother’s voice cracking. 

Sailors shouted over the din of the well-wishers signaling the ship’s departure. James broke away from the hug. 

“You’ll be fine. We shall write to each other every day. We will keep in touch,” he said. His eyes glistened and Alexander chewed his lip, searching him. 

“I will let you know I am safe the moment I land in Boston,” Alexander replied, swallowing. James shook his head, yes, and Alexander turned to head toward the ship.

****

The first thing Alexander noticed in Boston was the cold. 

He had never been so cold in his life. 

He reminisced on his trip. The change in temperature was incremental-- crossing latitudes slowly, creeping day by day while the wind stayed steady. He felt the sea breeze mingle with the hot sun one morning, stepping out onto the deck, blinking and squinting. The air was silent, absent from sea birds and screeching gulls and the sounds of waves hitting rocks.

“Bloody unnatural, isn’t it?” An older sailor called to him, reading his mind, coiling a rope and packing it into a corner. Alexander eyed him. “The silence. It’ll get to you after a while.”

Alexander stayed quiet, turning back to the sky. 

He tried to spend as many days as he could on the decks, away from the stench of rotting food and human waste below. On the second day of the trip, when the water was still a searing turquoise, he searched the ship for Mags. 

He found them in the tiny galley kitchen, hastily, quietly, chopping potatoes. 

“You’re good at that,” Alexander said. Mags looked up, a brief expression of alarm, and then calm.

“Oh--it’s you. You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that. Least of all when I’ve got a knife.”

“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” Alexander picked up an apple, “Would they notice if I took this?”

“Probably not,” Mags looked down at the meal they were preparing. “The cook’s an old drunk. Forgetful, too. Absolutely useless. Yesterday I caught him trying to cook rancid meat. I’d just stick to vegetables for the next few weeks if I were you.”

Alexander swallowed, “Is he nice, at least?”

“As nice as can be expected, working for pennies on this wretched thing,” Mags grumbled. They finished the potatoes and moved on to an onion, “At least he  _ gets  _ paid.”. 

Alexander watched them silently for a moment, then walked over to a tiny circular window, looking out. Blue as far as the eye could see.

“You better not stand around looking bored or Peters will find something for you to do,” Mags interrupted his thoughts. 

“What are your plans for Boston?”

“Leave the ship and look for work as a cook, I suppose,” Mags said. The sound of the knife hitting the chopping block resonated loudly in the small, dim kitchen. The boat rocked gently; creaking wood and splashing water. “Not the vision I had for my life, but better than St. Croix.”

Alexander took another bite of the apple.

Mags went on, “Peters said to ask for a cousin of his. I’ll be paid decently, he said. Then he passed out with a bottle of gin on that pile of rags.” Mags indicated to a beige and brown pile behind them. “We shall see.”

The other teenager chewed thoughtfully on this, nervous to press the issue.

He took his apple and climbed the steps back up to the top deck.

He was stuck with how  _ routine _ it all felt.

“That’ll change. We’re passing the Carolinas, tomorrow.” It was a Tuesday, Alexander marked it in his ledger, when a different sailor-- stout and covered in pox scars--looked down at him. 

“What do you mean?”

“So far the ocean has been calm. But the Carolinas are treacherous.” The stout sailor waited for Alexander to agree with him. Alexander shrunk under his gaze, and the sailor laughed at him. “Boy-- didn’t Cruger teach you anything?”

Alexander stiffened his back, “I had to teach myself most things.”

“I mean about currents and waves. Didn’t you ever wonder why some shipments take longer at different times of the year?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“It’s the way the waters meet,” the sailor cut him off. His scars moved and flexed on his dirty face while he explained, “The temperature change comes in the water at the Carolinas. Cold meets hot. Storms happen. And ships disappear.”

The stout sailor gave Alexander a mirthless smile. The teenager felt a chill, and looked out at the ocean.

“It’s unpredictable, when the change will happen. But it does.” The sailor ended his explanation.

That night, Alexander could not sleep. Every creak, every rock of the boat, every gust of wind, shook his nerves and his thoughts traveled to what the sailor had said.

In his half-conscious state, he saw his ship capsize; saw a hurricane lift it out of the water and smash it against a wave, drowning all on board. He started, slipping out of his hammock and falling to the ground, to the delight of some of the other passengers. He heard their muffled laughter and fought the urge to curse them, face burning. 

“Look at the little sailor, afraid of a bit of wind,” he heard one of them sneer, and spit. 

Alexander straightened his shirt and decided to spend the rest of the night on the top deck, looking up at the stars. 

Reaching it, he saw Mags, who had the same idea. 

“I used to study astronomy,” they said, without breaking their stare from the heavens. “My parents learned it from their parents, and so on.”

Alexander sat quietly next to Mags, until the sun rose. 

The stout, pox-scarred sailor was right, and the change in routine happened all at once. 

The water switched from exquisite blue to a murky, cold gray on an otherwise unremarkable Friday. Alexander wrapped a thin shawl around him tighter. Even the  _ smell _ was different. A rough, thin, gangly sailor slapped him on the back and he jumped. 

“You’re gonna need more than that to keep you warm, where you’re going.”

His friends laughed. The ship rocked, sending Alexander tripping over his own feet, landing in a puddle of freezing sea water and the sailors laughed harder. A younger man, not much older than himself, came over and helped him up, “Once we get past the Carolinas, it will be smooth.”

“Thank you…” Alexander replied. He brushed himself off.

“They’re right, though. November in New England is nothing to scoff at.”

“Well this is all I have,” Alexander said, defensively. The younger man took his coat off, and handed it to Alexander, who took it wordlessly.

In several more agonizingly silent, bitter days-- Alexander heard the unmistakable scream of a seagull and felt a blast of cold autumn air.

Aaron felt as though he were marking off days on a calendar; a prolonged execution.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Matt said to him one day after Aaron voiced his concerns. He didn’t respond. He wanted to get out, to take a walk and try to make the best of the situation until he left for Connecticut. 

He made his way around the campus; clouds gathering, Aaron looked up at the sky, squinting. The day was bright but cloudy. At once clammy and cold. He loosened his necktie and undid the top buttons of his vest. He kicked a rock and followed it to a cluster of trees. The clock tower chimed two pm and he again thought about the passage of time. 

Aaron came upon the brick building that housed Witherspoon and the other professors, heard the sound of them chatting over a late lunch. He leaned against the rough brick and scraped some moss off it, straining to listen. 

“And what has Knox got to say for himself? The old fool’s put the boy in danger-- making him travel from St. Croix to Boston on his own--”

“--Well he’s not a child. He’s seventeen.”

“I heard they were attacked by pirates.”

Aaron perked up; leaned into the wall and inched closer to the open window.

“Do not propagate rumors, Thompson,” came Witherspoon’s voice, “There is no evidence the ship was attacked by pirates. As far as we know the boy is safe in Boston now and will be making his way southward as soon as the weather permits.”

“Do you think it will get better, as the season goes on? It is nearly November. The snows will start soon--”

Witherspoon cut another man off, “--The boy is in good hands with Reverend Rodgers. I know the man personally. He and his family will make sure he gets to Elizabethtown unscathed.”

Aaron heard the rustling of papers, heard the slam of a newspaper against the table.

“And how do you explain  _ this?” _

His curiosity got the best of him, and he crept down low, raising his head just enough to peer inside. He was met with the sight he expected: several older professors sat around a table-- they seemed to be discussing a newspaper Thompson had brought. 

_ Another bloody newspaper,  _ Aaron thought, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He sighed, then peeked back at the old men.

Witherspoon glanced at the newspaper, bored, “What is your  _ point _ , Thompson?”

“Appealing to locals for money the moment he arrived? That is completely inappropriate behavior for one of his station. Appalling.”

Several of the older men agreed, murmuring. Witherspoon shook his head.

“The boy is untrained and provincial, yes. But that doesn’t mean he cannot be reigned in.”

“And what of his schooling?” 

Aaron tuned in to this new voice. Another round of grumbled assent from the old professors. 

_ What of it?  _ Aaron asked in his mind.

“Rodgers has promised me a full report on his progress.” Witherspoon took a loud slurp of water. Aaron could tell he was nervous. He grinned. Witherspoon went on, “If he is as quick and intelligent as they say he is, I will interview him and place him in a class in accordance with his learning.”

Thompson was not impressed, “And if he continues his rabble-rousing?”

Witherspoon let out an unfriendly laugh, “Rabble-rousing? You’ve read too many pamphlets. Appealing to the kindness of the Bostonians on behalf of his struggling neighbors does not a rabble-rouser make.”

“He is to stay with Mulligan. You  _ know _ his type--”

“--Passionate about the American cause.” 

Aaron saw a different professor cut in, briefly, before his vision was obscured by a waving curtain. He studied a tiny green worm that inched across the windowsill. 

“He’s a firebrand.”

Witherspoon raised his voice slightly, “The boy was immediately set upon by the British from the moment he landed. First a ship fire, then fifteen blasted red coats-- you see why Mulligan is so protective.”

Thompson fought back, “The soldiers were patrolling. They did not set upon anyone-- now who’s the one starting rumors?”

“Well, perhaps we need more like him, to infuse some  _ spirit _ into our student body? Perhaps this boy will learn a thing or two from Mulligan. Perhaps his revolutionary spirit will rub off on the ward, and he can help shake the cobwebs from this place--” a third voice interjected emphatically. His peers murmured in agreement. 

Aaron stood up straight and flicked the worm onto the ground. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the dormitories. 

“There you are,” Aaron heard a voice behind him coming upon another building. Matt caught up with him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You left so fast, you forgot your letters.”

Aaron took a thin stack of papers from his cousin. His pulse quickened at the sight of Paterson’s name. 

“You haven’t read these, have you, Matt?”

Matt scoffed, “No. God knows I don’t want to see the inner workings of your deranged mind. What were you doing at Witherspoon’s?”

“Nothing. Eavesdropping.”

“Anything  _ good _ this time?” Matt tightened his scarf against the autumn wind. 

Aaron exhaled, “They’re talking about the boy from the Caribbean again. You’d think with the way everyone is acting it’s the second coming of Christ.”

“The one with the dirty poems?”

Aaron glanced at Matt out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow. Matt laughed. 

“Alright. I will admit I glanced at one of your letters. Don’t be cross-- it was from Reverend Knox so I assumed it wasn’t anything obscene--”

“--Matt, come on--” Aaron whined, filtering through the papers and pulling out the one with the damaged seal. He scanned the note, shoulders falling.

“He wants us to come see him in the next week. From what I gather, he’s going to send this ward, Hamilton, to Witherspoon for an introduction and to see if he’s good enough to get into the university.”

“What does he want  _ me _ to do about it?”

Matt shrugged, “I don’t know. Use your charm to get him a spot in the class of seventy-four?”

Aaron shot his cousin a look, “Don’t be absurd.”

“In any case, I hear he’s not really prepared. I heard from some other students that he’s going to go to some academy, first, because he’s so behind. I mean, how smart can he be? What kind of education can you possibly get on an island of shipping clerks and slaves?”

“Matt, don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, look at  _ you,”  _ his cousin grinned, hitting him on the shoulder, “I guess Knox knows an easy target when he sees one. That’s why he wants you to meet the boy. Soft hearted Aaron.”

“Well he’s out of luck because Witherspoon hates me and wishes I’d just disappear and stop reminding him that I’m not my grandfather and never will be.” Aaron opened the door to their building. “When is the boy supposed to be in New Jersey?”

Matt was one step behind him, “He landed in Boston a few days ago. He should be in New York right now, with someone named Hercules Mulligan. No idea who that is.”

“He’s a firebrand.”

“Oh. You know him?”

Aaron made his way up a narrow flight of stairs, “Just overheard some things.”

Matt went on, “Well. He’s staying with this Mulligan person, and he will be in New Jersey sometime next week.”

“I don’t want to meet him. I have too much to do.”

“Too much to do? Like skulk around campus?” Matt laughed again, and the pair stepped inside their dorm. Aaron tossed the stack of letters onto his nightstand, then fell back onto his mattress and closed his eyes. Matt’s gaze followed him, incredulous, and he went on sarcastically, “Look at you. You do look very busy.”

“I have to pack and prepare for Connecticut.”

“Well then write to Knox and tell him.”

“I will later.”

“What are you doing right now?”

Aaron shot his cousin a look, then turned on his side and faced the wall. He heard Matt rustling around, clearing a spot on his desk to begin the night’s schoolwork

****

Anne Lytton studied Alexander, frowning, “Are you sure you’re alright? You haven’t said a  _ thing _ since this morning.”

The carriage bumped uncomfortably along the road and Alexander adjusted himself in his seat, painfully aware of the stinking sailor’s coat he was wearing in the bitter cold. He looked at his cousin across from him and gave her a small, polite smile, praying she couldn’t smell him.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Anne went on, looking out the carriage window. “I know you had issues with Peter, but I am nothing like him, I assure you.

Alexander swallowed, “I am tired, that’s all.”

“I heard there was an explosion on your ship. Is that true?”

Alexander nodded mutely. He didn’t want to talk about it. Thought briefly about God’s cruel sense of humor.  _ You’re cold, Little Hamilton? Here’s a fire. _

“Well I think it’s wretched what they put you through. Sending a boy off by himself to navigate such a journey. If Knox and Rodgers were so eager to get you here they could have traveled with you. God knows Knox spends enough time in his little island paradise--”

“--It wasn’t paradise,” Alexander cut her off. He knew he sounded rude. His stomach grumbled and his teeth hurt and he didn’t care.

Anne raised an eyebrow, “Well. Perhaps not for you.”

“Not for anyone.”

“You’re a surly lad, aren’t you,” Anne crossed her legs. The carriage hit a bump and she let out an unladylike swear, sticking her head out the window to smack the exterior and yell at the driver. Alexander stifled a laugh. She pulled her head back in, “If they could get us to Mulligan’s in one piece that would be ideal. Some of us had enough travel for one lifetime.”

She gave Alexander a thin, but friendly smile.

“That’s an interesting coat.”

Alexander turned red, “A sailor gave it to me. I didn’t have anything warm to wear.”

“Well. We’re going to have to take you to the tailor. How much money do you have?” Anne asked plainly. Alexander suddenly felt insecure. 

“Four hundred pounds. But that is for school, nothing else.”

Anne pursed her lips, looking out the window, “Unbelievable. Send the boy to a new country with no clothes and not a single penny to spend on himself. So much for Christian charity.”

“Reverend Knox was kind to me,” Alexander countered. “It’s not his fault.”

“Oh, my dear, I don’t doubt that he was  _ kind-- _ but a bit unrealistic, if you ask me. Have you brushed up on your studies?”

“I...well...there wasn’t exactly time,” Alexander replied. 

Anne studied him, wryly, “There was time for you to go bother the printers about money for your neighbors, I hear.”

Another bump in the road.

“I wasn’t  _ bothering _ them. I was giving them business. And besides, they did help get me here. I’d feel bad if I didn’t return the favor somehow.”

Anne let out a small laugh, looking back out the window, “Spoken like a true merchant. You’ll do well in New York.”

Hamilton chewed a nail, silent for a minute. He watched the shadows creeping in as the sun went down. 

“How different is New York from Boston?”

His cousin made a noise, turning her gaze back toward him, “In what manner? Society? Commerce? Climate?”

“All of it.”

Anne exhaled, shrugging, “As different as can be. In all respects.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I thought you said you were tired.”

Hamilton shrunk back in his seat, trying a different approach, “I just mean that...well. I want to know what to expect. How to fit in. On my first day in Boston I saw two different brawls in the middle of the street and two days after that, a British officer slamming his rifle into an old man’s head.”

“Good lord,” Anne replied. “Well-- things are a bit more... _ subdued… _ in New York, you could say. Soldiers everywhere, yes, but nothing like what you saw in Boston. We are able to coexist peacefully.”

“There was a mob. I’d never seen anything like it,” Alexander went on, staring back out the window. He chose his words carefully, trying not to sound provincial, “I mean, I guess I’ve seen mobs before. But this was different.”

Anne’s curiosity was piqued, “What exactly happened?”

“I don’t know if it’s appropriate for a lady to hear.”

Anne let out another brief laugh, “Alexander, do not patronize me. You started a story, now finish it.”

Alexander looked back at her, tearing his gaze away from the thick row of pines along the side of the road, “They stripped a customs officer naked, and tarred and feathered him.”

“You saw that?”

“I did.”

“No wonder you look haunted,” Anne shook her head, matter-of-factly, “Well. If you’re worried about such barbarity in New York, don’t be. We’re much more level-headed, I assure you. Even Mulligan has his limits. I doubt he’d sanction such violence.”

The pair were silent for a moment. 

Anne sighed, and continued, “I suppose Hercules will straighten it all out. He is tough but he will make sure you are prepared for your new life, and up to university standards. You will have to fatten up and regain some stamina to keep up with him but I think he’s up to the challenge. I’ve known him for a long time…”

Alexander let Anne’s voice drift through the carriage as she regaled him with tales of her friends and studies. He looked out the carriage window again, studying the new foliage-- blurs of deep green and rich brown. The smell of burning wood and dead leaves. The sun went down at four thirty. The clothing. The food. The brief flashes of skittish deer and tiny squirrels. The cold. The accents and languages. He leaned his head against the hard glass, the thumping rhythm of the horses’ gallop rocking him into a light nap. 

He needed a  _ moment _ . 

From the second the ship docked and the tall, gangly sailor accidentally set off the blasted gunpowder-- Alexander hadn’t stopped moving. 

He had visions of acquainting himself with the town, introducing himself to the people slowly. He wanted to look at their shops, study the types of things they sold and how they conducted themselves. It was denied him; he was leaning over the edge of the balcony on the ship as it pulled in and in a split second heard the explosion, felt Mags’ fingers at his sleeve, diving down the plank while the acrid smell of sulfur filled his nostrils and made him cough. 

From the second the ship docked, he felt like a marked man-- all eyes on him.

Alexander pulled his head up from the window, Anne’s voice floating in and out of his ear. He looked down at his clothes again, the unmistakable smell of sweat and seawater sticking to him like a second skin. His once white linen shirt blackened by gunpowder. 

“Ah!” Anne put her hands together in her lap. “I think we’re here.”

The driver stalled the horses as they came upon a large brown house. Alexander opened the door and stepped down on the cold dirt, the purple evening air. He wiped a leaf off his sleeve, and looked up, walking around the carriage to get a better look at the building. It looked similar to the ones he’d seen on St. Croix-- and he chastised himself.  _ What did you expect? _

Anne came up behind him, putting a hand on his back, “Come! Let us meet Mr. Mulligan and get you properly acquainted with New York City.”

****

Knox was beside himself with excitement when he caught Aaron’s eye at the end of the church service one blustery Sunday. The teenager had tried to sneak out unnoticed, to no avail. 

“Little Burr!” Knox called, causing some to look over at him. Aaron closed his eyes. He sighed and turned around.

“Reverend. Hello.”

“I am so pleased to see that you have joined us today,” Knox put an arm around him. “Today is an exciting day. I am glad I caught you. The ward I told you about is arriving any hour now. You must meet him!”

“How long will he be staying here?” Aaron asked. “I am to travel to Connecticut soon.”

“A while. At least a year, I think. Our plans were a bit dampened,” the reverend replied, “My dear friend Dr. Witherspoon wrote to me and said Alexander’s-- that’s his name-- he said Alexander’s provincial education may not be up to standard for Princeton’s rigorous coursework just yet-- but of course you know all about that.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. Knox continued, “In any case, he has been accepted to Barber’s Academy, just a few miles down the road in Elizabethtown. I am certain he will excel there.”

“And he will be in town today?”

“If the stagecoach is to be trusted, he should be here by sunset. He has been taking tours of the area. I believe last week it was King’s to see an old friend. This week, Elizabethtown. I am certain that he would like to be greeted by a friendly face.”

“Oh, Reverend, I have  _ much _ to do before I leave, and I--”

“--Nonsense! You must meet him. I am certain you will have much in common. Have you read his poem, oh, what is it called--  _ The Soul Ascending into Bliss _ , I believe. Reminds me so much of your father.” Knox smiled, and Aaron could not help but be infected by his enthusiasm. 

By sunset, as Knox predicted, the stagecoach arrived, and Aaron stood awkwardly, at a distance, in front of the buildings that lined the small street. He watched as a group of people got out of the small carriage. He absentmindedly straightened his vest and made sure the Hurricane Letter was still in his pocket - should the conversation run dry, he reasoned.

Aaron looked down at the ground, scuffed his boot against a stone, unearthing it from the dirt. He turned it over, revealing several slimy, wriggling worms. Footsteps approaching crunched dead leaves beneath them, and he looked up.

A figure appeared on the horizon, bringing a hand to his mouth to chew a nail, a nervous excitement buzzing around him. Aaron took his right hand out of his pocket, to greet him with a handshake.

Alexander held a single hand to his forehead, blocking the setting sun from his features, as if in salute, and Aaron studied him. Brown freckles spotted the bridge of his nose, sunburned and peeling. His hair stuck up at odd ends, carelessly. His clothes were too big, and slightly worn. In fact, thought Aaron, wearing new black shoes that shined like beetles, he felt overdressed.

He inhaled sharply, examining every feature of the newcomer minutely. Offered a hand in greeting. Smooth fingers entwined with rough ones, and pleasant nods were exchanged. 

Hamilton spoke first, breaking the stare and smiling. His grin was wide and sharp, Burr observed, hinting at a cutting wit, perhaps. The teenager from the islands began talking, nervously making his introduction.

“It is a pleasure, Aaron. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for long. The driver got a bit lost around the wharf --” Hamilton waved in the direction of the river. “I told him to ask for directions, but I think it just made him angrier... I should have known, I know those types --” he stopped and shook his head “-- Sorry, I mean to say, the working men -- they like to have their laughs at newcomers, they can sense when someone is lost--”

Hamilton laughed nervously again, looked around at the small town, “Everything happened so fast. Last month I was clerking for Cruger-- you know, Beekman and Cruger’s, the shipping merchants on Nevis and St. Croix.”

Aaron watched him;  _ Actually, I am not familiar with any shipping merchants on St. Croix. _

Alexander shifted his weight, “It is so cold here. I knew to expect some change in climate, but I didn’t think it would be this drastic.”

Burr smiled, “Yes. The weather changes quite rapidly in November. Thankfully the vermin leave when the frost comes so I cannot complain.”

Hamilton looked at him briefly. In the distance, the ship-men shouted at each other between seabird shrieks. He broke his gaze from the other boy and watched them.

“Reminds me of home.”

Aaron stole a glance at his new friend.  _ What in God’s name am I supposed to say to you? _

“I suppose there was a lot of that on St. Croix.”

“It’s all there was,” Alexander replied, somewhat bitterly. Aaron continued to study him. “If it weren’t for Reverend Knox reading my silly little poems and petitioning for funds—”

Hamilton trailed off, pulled a tiny, weather beaten leather-bound book from his back pocket, and stared at it pensively. Burr remembered the letter in his pocket and felt it absentmindedly.

“If it wasn’t for the Reverend, I don’t know where I’d be. Still on that island, no doubt. Resigned to a life of -- well-- that.” He inclined his head towards the wharf. “You should have seen the things I had to deal with.”

Something about the way Alexander scoffed made Aaron even more curious. He eyed the book carefully, wanting to know its secrets. Was there more like the letter, speaking to him as if in conversation? His mouth grew dry, not having spoken much, and tasted stale from being shut too long.

Hamilton talked on nervously, and Burr watched as a tiny white cabbage moth flitted around Alexander’s head. Without thinking, he swatted it away protectively. Hamilton looked up and laughed.

“I must be boring you,” Hamilton grinned sheepishly and readjusted his bag, somewhat embarrassed. “I am still a bit overawed at it all. Are you familiar with this town? I mean-- of course you are. You must spend a lot of time around here.”  _ Stop talking, for God’s sake. _

“Well, when I can.” 

“Would you believe me if I told you there was a fire on my ship, just as we pulled into harbor?”

“I would not,” Burr responded, a smile creeping across his face. He had since given up on pulling out the Hurricane Letter, deciding rather whimsically that the hurricane was standing before him.

Hamilton placed a hand solemnly to his heart, “I swear to you-- Just as we were pulling in, some gunpowder ignited. I didn’t even have time to enjoy the scenes of Boston harbor. We were ushered off as mercilessly as cattle.”

Alexander shifted his weight awkwardly. Aaron motioned to his shirt, “Is that gunpowder?”

“What? Oh…” Hamilton’s expression fell.  _ You forgot to change your shirt, you utter moron.  _ “It...yes, it is. I could have sworn Mrs. Mulligan cleaned this.”

“So you were forced to abandon ship because of an explosion, immediately upon entering Boston harbor. An ill-omen if I ever heard one.” Burr tried to lighten the mood.

Alexander looked up, letting a tiny laugh escape him. He shook his head, “Or as Knox would put it, proof that God wanted me off that ship and into my new life as soon as possible.”

“That does sound like something he would say.” Aaron looked down, chuckling, He deepened his voice to mimic the reverend’s, “‘Little Burr, don’t you believe in Providence? You have quite literally walked through fire!’”

Hamilton smiled broadly, “I see he’s not so creative with his nicknames. He always called me ‘Little Hamilton’.”

“We cannot all be poets,” Burr replied. “Shall we walk?”

Alexander nodded in assent, and Aaron took the lead. Around them, the night winds picked up, the sun setting rapidly. Leaves rustled noisily in the breeze and Hamilton shivered. 

“I should have brought a heavier coat,” he lamented. “Would you mind terribly if we took a seat in that tavern?”

Hamilton indicated to Hyer’s across the street, and Burr suddenly felt nervous. Before he could object, the other teenager made his way down the street and into the dimly lit room.

“Much better. Much warmer. I am not looking forward to winter. When does the first snow happen? It’s very exciting. I’ve never seen snow,” Alexander settled at a small table. He looked up at Aaron, who scanned the room nervously. “What is the matter?”

Aaron shook his head, and sat with his back to the rest of the room, “Nothing. I am fine. I...started a fight with a patron in here a few weeks ago and he said if he ever saw me again he’d throw me out. I was just making sure he wasn’t here.”

Hamilton looked at him, “That is quite a story. I would love to hear it.”

Burr let the half-baked lie flutter around his mind. He shook his head, “I would rather hear  _ your _ story.”

This seemed to work on the other teenager, and Hamilton blushed, smiling. 

“There is not much to say, really. I had some...unfortunate circumstances befall me a few years ago. I found myself working as a clerk for some merchants in St. Croix, and that is where Reverend Knox found me. I suppose he was impressed, though I am still trying to figure out  _ why _ ,” Alexander laughed. 

“What sort of unfortunate circumstances?” Burr asked. Hamilton’s grin faded as quickly as it appeared. Aaron watched him as he pretended not to hear the question. Alexander looked around the tavern, then out at the street. 

“There is a lot of promise in the country, though I feel like a bit of a wandering stranger,” He tapped his book and searched for common ground, or something at least impressive. He eyed Burr briefly, who stared down at the table, almost disinterested. Hamilton felt his stomach sink, and tried again.

“I know someone who goes to King’s, his name is Ned. I was able to visit him a few days ago. He’s training in medicine, which I think I will try my hand at. I know Knox had it in his mind that I would keep to accounting and bookkeeping but I’m sick to death of numbers. I should also like to become a soldier, but that is almost expected of boys our age. Are you at the College of New Jersey?”

Burr sighed, “I am finished with it.”

Hamilton looked back at him, curious, waiting. 

Burr cleared his throat. “I am to travel to Connecticut for religious studies, in the very near future,” he repeated solemnly. The phrase he had repeated ten thousand times, like memorization of Bible verses.  _ This country holds no promise for you, Aaron. _

“That doesn’t interest you?” Hamilton looked at the quiet boy with a newfound pity alight in his eyes.

“I am figuring that out as I go,” Burr replied, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“But you will do it anyway, to please your family?” Hamilton pressed, watching Burr’s expression change, finding an entrance. He took the dive. 

“I have heard so much about them. I must admit the idea of coming to talk to you was enough to keep me awake with nerves all last night, you being a grandson to someone like Reverend Edwards. I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject, admittedly.”

Aaron’s chest swelled with emotion, and he cleared his throat again awkwardly. The wandering stranger from St. Croix encapsulated such an unattainable, alien promise—Burr could not understand how he found himself sent to the shores of a country that would do nothing but cage him and beat him to death.

“You are lucky to have such a fine and caring family.” Alexander's voice had taken on a softer bend; the bright smile and gesticulating hands had retreated, and a sadness settled in.

_ Luck-- that word again!  _ Aaron tried to keep the smile on his face but he could feel it fading.

“‘Tradition holds you tenderly in her arms.’ I once read that phrase in a book. Like destiny.” Hamilton added. “ _ Surely _ that has to excite you?”

Burr reeled, quelled the tightness in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining. He smelled the ocean, saw the winds tear through billowing clouds, the sea dancing violently.

“You sound like my uncle,” he managed, opening his eyes and forcing a smile.

Hamilton looked down, studying a tear on his sleeve, “My brother told me that if I left, I’d never see him again. I couldn’t tell if he was making a threat or a promise.”

Burr waited for further explanation; weighed the options of pressing the conversation further. Then, “I have a sister who’s just been married to a lawyer. What does your brother do?”

Alexander’s eyes flicked from his sleeve to the crowded room, “Carpenter.” 

Another bout of silence. Hamilton adjusted himself in the hard seat, suddenly feeling as though he were being interviewed for a job he was woefully under qualified for. He shrank under the black stare.  _ Go on, then-- tell him about your stupid little life. _

“I wish I had skills like that,” Aaron offered. “I am afraid I’m useless with anything other than a quill. And even that is generous.”

Alexander’s smile returned, “Well, there we are alike.”

Burr took a deep breath, addressing his most pressing curiosity.

“This letter-- about a hurricane,” he pulled it out of his pocket, and put it on the table, unfolding it reverently. Hamilton eyed it, turning scarlet. “Did this really happen? Exactly as you stated?”

Alexander felt his defenses flare, then met the eyes of the boy across from him, and saw only rapt interest. He settled. 

“It did,” Hamilton answered quietly. 

“Did your father ever answer you?”

Hamilton felt the lump in his throat rise. He stared at Burr, expecting to see some sneer, or a joke hidden in the corners of his mouth. His expression hadn’t changed. He studied Alexander, waiting. 

“I do not speak to my father,” Hamilton managed. 

Burr exhaled quietly. He looked down at the letter, disappointed. 

Hamilton cleared his throat, squirming, “I did not know it had an effect on people this far north. I thought it would be of interest only to those affected by tropical storms. I never expected it to reach the shores of New England.”

“At first I thought it was a metaphor,” Burr answered cryptically. He folded the letter, and slipped it back into his pocket, hidden.

“Not a metaphor. The truth.”

Burr looked back up at the flushed cheeks; Hamilton smiled at Hyer, who brought them water. Hyer shot Aaron a dirty look.

“Is that the tavern-keep you fought with?”

“Yes,” Aaron lied. “He hates me. I don’t care.”

Alexander laughed and sputtered into his drink, spilling it. Aaron smiled. 

_ Watercolors--  _ Hamilton wanted to say.  _ That is what my life was. _ Flooding a water-logged parchment, garish hues blending indiscriminately. Sideways rain; searing blue water and frightful red blood. A chaotic mess of unhinged, unpredictable feelings and even crueler fate-- Hamilton dabbed at his pants with a cloth napkin, the wetness seeping into the only shirt he’d brought. A mess-- a sloppy, nervous, provincial mess. 

“I hope you did not take offense to my questions about your writing,” Burr offered. Hamilton looked up from his spill. “You have a way of...illustrating your words. Though I never knew the man and frankly, do not wish to know the man--if it is any consolation, I feel as though you would have made the great Edwards proud.”

Alexander felt lightheaded, “That is very kind of you.”

Burr studied the other boy further, feeling hollow, the emptiness opening him up. The vision of a ship on the horizon, sailing away forever; black lines waiting to be colored in. _ Here it is _ , Burr realized silently, breaking his stare and looking off into the distance, suddenly embarrassed--there it was.

“I have made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry,” Alexander continued, fidgeting with a loose thread on the napkin.

Aaron looked at him, “No, not at all.”

Silence fell between them once again, peppered by the shouts of the men at the dock and the chatter of the dinner patrons in the tavern.

Burr leaned his head back against the wood in his chair, “Will you favor me with one of your poems?”

Hamilton adjusted himself again, smile creeping back onto his face. He pulled out his disheveled book.

_ Good faith, she has you fast! _


	10. Ministry

Aaron sat in the tiny carriage as it bumped along the road, watching the sky turn from light blue to a dusky purple, his breaths making small puffs of steam in the autumn evening air. The woods were deathly quiet; the only noise was the clopping of hooves against a nearly frozen, solid earth. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded letter, neatly scrawled with the name of his late father’s friend.

_I am pleased to hear that you wish to pursue religious studies under my care. Please come at your pleasure to Connecticut where you may commence with introductions and have access to my entire library. I do believe the Lord works mysteriously, and that he has brought our minds together._

Aaron scanned the short letter several times, always landing on that particular sentence. The idea of the Lord intervening in _anything_ Aaron had been a part of in the recent years of his life--or his early ones, for that matter-- made him smile in the dark. But Dr. Bellamy was insistent, and so Burr made his way to Connecticut, to get a feel for the religious life. 

The carriage hit a rut in the road, and his seat bounced so hard he hit his head on the roof. 

“Can we get there in one piece, sir?” He called out the window. The coach lifted a hand apologetically. 

Aaron took the moment to peer into the distance at the small house at the end of the road where Dr. Bellamy would be waiting. 

He went with defenses up, his last conversation about it with Witherspoon ringing in his head. His stern words came to him during all his leisure hours, mingling with Patersons’, leaving a maddening concoction of demands inside his mind. He briefly wondered if he could make the two men meet: Witherspoon could tell Paterson how to bloviate until his teeth fell out; Paterson could instruct Witherspoon on metaphors for self-pleasure. 

Another hard bounce, and Burr swore, dropping his letter out the window and into the dirt. He watched as the tiny white speck disappeared behind them, hoping that he wouldn’t need to present it in order to be let into the house. 

The carriage driver turned the coach to the right as they came upon the house-- it was small, but well made-- and Aaron could see every window illuminated with light. He smiled to himself, visualizing those inside waiting for their new guest. 

He dropped out of the carriage with a soft thud, and tipped the driver.

As he approached the door, he saw it open and a boy his age greeted him on the front porch.

“Hello! You must be Aaron,” the boy hugged his guest, catching Aaron off guard with his familiarity. “I am Jon-- Dr. Bellamy’s son. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Aaron stumbled over his words, coming out of the hug, “Yes--er. I am Aaron. A pleasure to meet you, Jon.”

Jon stood silently for a moment, then, “He’s just upstairs organizing some letters. He’ll be down to greet you in a moment. Come in, come in!”

The other boy, smiling, linked his arm with Burr’s and led him into the warm living room. He went on, “I am so pleased you were able to visit. I thought about writing to you, but could never think of anything interesting.”

“I am sure that’s not true,” Aaron responded. The heat from the fire wrapped itself around him and he forgot about the uncomfortable carriage ride. “Although, speaking of letters-- I’m afraid I’ve lost your father’s to me. I hope he’s not expecting me to present it to him.”

Jon made his way to a side table with drinks on it, poured on for Aaron, and turned around to face him, “Oh, he won’t mind, I am sure.”

He handed Aaron the drink, “Oh! _Wine--_ ”

Jon laughed, “Yes. Usually my father doesn’t have any around but he said today is a special occasion.”

Aaron watched the other boy smile, and take a drink, suddenly feeling nervous. He searched for words. At that moment, Dr. Bellamy descended the stairs, and pulled Aaron into another hug. 

“My God, let me get a look at you,” The older man said, studying Burr, “A spitting image of your mother.”

The older reverend regarded him, a pleasant smile affixed to his face, a slight sadness in his eyes. Burr quickly broke eye-contact, embarrassed. 

“Your house is lovely, Reverend,” he said. “I got a good glimpse at it from the street.”

“Please, call me Dr. Bellamy. Or Joseph, if you prefer, I do hate the formalities. And thank you,” the older man replied, making his way to the wine. “You have arrived at exactly the right time. Dinner is almost ready. We are having beef stew tonight. I hope that will be satisfying.”

Burr’s stomach growled, “Yes, that will be fine.”

“The servants have made up the extra bedroom. It is not luxurious. I hope that will suffice,” The older man added.

Aaron smiled and nodded, “I am not picky.”

“You’re better off sleeping on the floor. The last time anyone slept on the guest bed they couldn’t walk straight,” Jon cut in.

“I can sleep on the floor, then” Burr offered, “Really, I quite like it a bit firm.”

Dr. Bellamy looked at him, then, “Of course. Whatever is most comfortable for you, my dear boy. How long will you be staying with us? Am I to understand this is just a visit?”

“Just a few days. I will ride back to New Jersey on Thursday.”

“I think that is just enough time for us to convince you to _stay_ ,” Jon offered, linking his arm with Burr’s again. “Shall I show you the bedroom?”

Burr took another sip of wine, and put the glass down, “That would be good, thank you.”

“Dinner will be served in one hour, no later!” Dr. Bellamy called after them.

Jon led Aaron up a narrow, dark staircase, “Skip the fifth step, if you don’t mind. We had a servant fall through it last year, poor thing. Sprained his ankle. Father says he’ll get around to fixing it but he’s absentminded-- here we go--”

Aaron was brought to a small but cozy bedroom: bare wooden floors with covered one large brown rug. A four-post bed made up with beige linens sat against the opposite wall. Next to it, a nightstand with a wash basin and mirror on the wall. Aaron walked over to the small fireplace to his left, taking a poker and prodding the ash. 

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll get someone up here to fix that. This room gets bitterly cold, I’m afraid. North-facing,” Jon indicated toward the small window. Aaron looked at it, noticing bits of rags shoved around the sill. Jon shifted his weight, “It’s really not that bad, once you get the fire burning. 

Aaron gave him a polite smile and walked around the room, touching the bed, “It’s perfect, Jon.”

“How does it compare to the university?”

“About the same. Nice to have a room to myself, though. I shared one with my cousin for the past few years.”

Jon walked over to him, taking a finger and prodding one of the rags, “Terrible wind. Freezes the whole house. Luckily you won’t be spending much time in this room during the day.”

“What will the daily schedule be like?” Aaron asked. 

Jon pulled his hand back from the window and stuck it in his pocket, “We wake at six, take breakfast for an hour, and then start the day with prayer and some reflections. My father says a service every day at ten in the small chapel just down the road, to which we will accompany him. Once you get the hang of that we will help him write the sermons. Then, the afternoons will be spent with study and translations. In the evenings we may have guests-- my father likes to invite people to supper.”

Aaron looked at him quizzically. 

Jon clarified, “I mean-- lost souls. Those searching for guidance or advice. Or even just those looking for a hot meal and a kind face.”

“I see,” Aaron replied, looking around again. 

“Don’t feel nervous. You will get used to it after a few days.”

“How will I know what to say to them?” Aaron asked quietly. 

Jon put an arm around him, “You’ll learn. Most just want a listening ear, anyway.”

Aaron took a deep breath, and sat on the bed. Jon watched him. Then he spoke again, face brightening into a smile. He sat down on the bed next to Aaron.

“Alright, I haven’t been honest.”

“Oh, no?”

Jon laughed, “Your reputation precedes you. I am afraid I know a _bit_ about you already. I had to ask around and do my research.”

Aaron broke his stare from the boy next to him, his own smile fading. Wind rattled the glass windowpane. 

“Is it true you were banned from the tavern in Princeton for fighting and defiling all the women?” 

“What?” Aaron raised his eyebrows and looked at the other boy, warming, “Who told you _that?”_

Jon shrugged, grinning, “Just rumors then, I suppose?”

“Matt…” Aaron sighed, covering his eyes. He put his head down, muffled speech, “He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“Is it true?” Jon’s eyes widened. “No judgements, of course--but--if you’re expecting that sort of thing here… I’m afraid you’ll be woefully disappointed.”

“No, it’s not true.” Aaron looked at him. He stood up and straightened his shirt, Jon eyeing him up and down. Aaron turned and walked toward the window, looking out. 

A knock at the door. Dr. Bellamy stuck his head in.

“Hello, boys. Dinner is ready, if you’re hungry.”

Jon stood up and walked over to his father, then turned back to Aaron, “Are you coming?’

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

Jon smiled, “Wonderful. Our cook makes the best beef stew. Would you like me to have your things brought up?’

Aaron nodded, yes, then watched as the father and son excited the room. He turned back to the small window and leaned his forehead against it. The carriage ride had done something to his lower back, and he winced in pain, placing a hand at the base of his spine and rubbing it. 

The night fell quickly. He picked himself up off the cold glass and walked back over to the fireplace, grabbing a flint and sparking a tiny flame in the dry wood. In several seconds, he had a roaring fire. He looked up at a servant coming in. 

“Your bags, sir.” 

“Oh-- hello...yes. Thank you. Please place them by the bed.”

The servant dropped the items off, bowed, and left Aaron to it. 

He picked through his things: a trunk with a week’s worth of clothes, a pack of plain paper for letter writing, two quills, two inkwells. He ran a hand through his hair, wanting a bath.

He could have kicked Matt for being so cavalier with his correspondence. He grabbed a blank sheet of parchment and a quill and walked over to the small desk in the corner. What to say? His thoughts jumbled and his mind went blank. 

_Dearest Matt, My reputation precedes me--_

“Are you coming, Aaron?” Jon’s quiet knock at the door. “The food is getting cold.”

****

After dinner, Aaron was allowed to have a bath. He sank into the room-temperature water, submerging his head and face, holding his breath and then blowing out bubbles. After a beat he came up, wiping the water from his eyes. The food sat in his stomach like a rock.

He stared into the tiny fire, back against the cold tub, hands gripping the sides. He winced, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. 

He grabbed a bar of soap and absentmindedly rubbed it against his arm, letting the faint scent fill the room. 

The Bellamys were warm and welcoming. Aaron thanked God that no wandering vagabonds decided to show up for dinner. Jon’s description of what was to be their daily schedule come spring made him nervous. He dipped down into the water again, leaving everything but his eyes above the waterline, catching a plain cross that hung on the wall above the head of his bed. 

Aaron imagined him and Hannah in the bed together, facing it. He’d force her to look at it. A tiny smile crept across his mouth and he laughed; more bubbles forming in the water around his mouth. 

“Are you decent…?” 

Aaron sat up straight, with a start. Jon knocked lightly on the door again.

“Sorry to be a bother. I realized there were no towels or clean linens in your room,” came his muffled voice. The door handle clicked, and he stepped in. He had his head turned away from Aaron, holding a hand up to his face. 

“Jon-- just--leave them there on the chair--” Aaron sputtered, dipping down into the water. “You didn’t have to bring me any, I would have been fine.”

“Nonsense. There,” Jon used his free hand to stack the pile neatly. 

“I appreciate it.”

“How did you like dinner?”

Aaron paused, unsure. Then, “...It was fine.”

“Good...good.”

“Would you mind leaving me for a bit, Jon? I am finishing up here.”

Jon turned his back. In a split second, he darted toward the fire, “Oh! Wait!”

He grabbed a poker and hit an ember back into the hearth, then grabbed one of the towels and threw it onto a tiny fire that sparked against the wooden floor, swearing under his breath. He dropped to his hands and knees, patting it out. 

Aaron sat up straight, craning his neck, “What on earth was that?”

“A little accident. Don’t worry,” Jon sat back on his legs, looking at the towel. “You’ll need new linens, though. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Good quick-thinking,” Aaron dipped back into the water. “Would you hand me the loose pants -- the brown ones in my trunk, right on top?” He brought a wet arm up, pointing, “Just there...please.”

Jon nodded and walked over, handing him the pants, carefully avoiding the water droplets on the floor. 

“Good God, what happened to your back?” Jon’s eyes widened.

“I told you, don’t look--”

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Jon shielded his eyes again, “But your back-- Aaron-- you look like you’ve been in a fight with a bear--”

Aaron’s face burned, and he lifted himself out of the water quickly, hastily pulling his pants up without drying himself off, “It’s nothing.”

Jon cautiously moved his hand, and, realizing Aaron was no longer naked, gave him his full attention.

“It’s not nothing. Who did that to you?”

 _“I said drop it.”_ Aaron shot back. Jon recoiled. “Didn’t your father ever beat you?”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed, searching for words, “Well...yes. But not like _that.”_

Aaron’s cheeks burned. He grabbed a random shirt from his trunk and threw it on. “Do not speak of it, do you understand?”

“No, of course not,” Jon replied quietly. 

“It is _nothing_.” Aaron turned and faced him.

Jon nodded, and backed out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Aaron exhaled as soon as he was gone and let his shoulders slump. He walked over to the bed, pulling the sheets back and getting under them, back against the headboard. He looked over at the unfinished letter to Matt. 

_My reputation precedes me--_

Aaron was in no mood to finish it. He thought about breakfast the next morning, and the day after that-- and the days to follow during the rest of the week-- and his stomach sank. Jon’s startled, pitying face. He cringed. He settled into a comfortable position, trying to get a few hours’ sleep before his inevitable pre-dawn thoughts rattled him awake. 

When Aaron opened his eyes again, the room was lit with candles that weren’t there when he went to bed. He blinked slowly, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself up. He looked around. The fire had been tended; his bathtub had been emptied and taken away. After another few seconds of adjusting to the light, he saw sitting on the nightstand next to him a tiny vial of balm, and a small note.

_For your back. Will not tell a soul._

Aaron picked it up and examined it, smiling. 

****

Almost subconsciously, Alexander began keeping a mental list of the people who were responsible for him:

 _Rachel. The Lyttons. Stevens. Knox. Hercules._

The cadence of the names sounded like a beat. He grinned mirthlessly at the image of himself like an apple falling from a tree and hitting each branch on the way down.

 _Rachel. The Lyttons. Stevens. Knox. Hercules._

The first time he met Hercules Mulligan, the older and much bigger man greeted him outside the house, walking over to him wearing a warm expression. He hugged him as if they’d known each other for years. Alexander felt his feet leave the ground -- “The Reverend has told me so much about you!” -- Alexander couldn’t help but smile. 

“Good things, I hope?”

“Wonderful things. I am pleased you made it here safe. I hear talk the coastlines are riddled with pirates,” Hercules’ smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, catching Hamilton off guard.

“I...well, I didn’t see any--”

“--You mustn’t think I am trying to worry you. My brother--you know him, he was a customer of Cruger’s--may have even seen him around St. Croix a few times without knowing, imagine! He related some stories of overturned ships off the Carolinas--but that is...neither here nor there,” 

Hercules talked on, taking large strides back up the road, leaving Anne at the carriage, much to her annoyance. His thick Irish accent made it hard for Alexander to follow his words; but with Hercules, he made himself known through an expressive face and gesticulating hands. Even his wild hair seemed to add words to the conversation.

Hamilton took long strides to keep up, “No, my journey on the ocean was quite uneventful.”

“Were you there for the fire? Was that _your_ ship?” Hercules asked, stealing a sidelong glance at the younger boy, “I heard it was horrendous.”

Hamilton swallowed, beginning to keep pace with Hercules, “Yes. I was leaving the ship when it broke out. If I’d stayed on the vessel for a minute more I don’t know if I’d be so lucky.”

_Lucky!_

“You are lucky, I will say that. It is a wonder no one died.” 

Alexander dodged a puddle. 

“Mr. Mulligan! Are you going to send someone out to help me with these bags?” Anne shouted from the carriage. Hercules raised a hand apologetically, nodding.

He looked back at the teenager, “Let’s go inside and find someone to help her, shall we?”

Alexander nodded, breathed in deeply; the air was clean and cold, and filled his lungs with energy. Hercules indicated he go first, and Hamilton ascended the steps, jittery with nerves. 

****

For the first time in months, Alexander slept through the night. The days were warm, without humidity, and the nights were cool and comfortable. He settled into life at the Mulligans-- occasionally pretending that he’d lived there his entire life. 

The cruelty of the island he left behind faded as each day passed. 

“A proper winter,” Hercules said one day, opening the curtains wide in the front room. “A proper Northern winter. That is what you need, my boy. Tell me, did you have four real seasons on that island?”

Hamilton sat on the couch, legs stretched out, “No. It was either raining, or blistering heat. And, of course, hurricane season. I suppose that would be June through October.”

Hercules grunted in assent, shaking some dust from the furthest curtain in the corner. He coughed, and waved his hand in front of his face. 

“We shall go on a walk today, I think. Enjoy this weather while it lasts. How would you like that?”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Alexander answered, smiling. 

Hercules beckoned to the younger man.

The pair made their way to the front door, Hamilton grabbed his coat as he passed the hook on the wall.

“I have done some meteorological research and I can say with confidence that the next month will be days like this one. You are going to enjoy this season.” Hercules walked down the front steps, taking in a deep breath. 

Hamilton looked around him, _I hope so._ In the distance he saw the river, the sunlight glistening off it, temporarily blinding him. He put his hand above his eyes to shield it from the brightness. He watched as the dock hands shouted at one another, loading boxes onto a small boat to be transported downriver. 

“Feeling homesick?” Hercules asked with a smile. 

“God, no,” Alexander answered quickly, taking his eyes off the men. Hercules laughed. 

“No, I should think not,” the pair side-stepped a puddle, and continued down the path toward the town center, the voices of people going about their daily business growing louder. 

“I thought we could do a bit of shopping. You haven’t had much time to see the shopkeepers, have you?”

“No, not really,” Alexander felt his mouth go dry again, “I have no reason to, really.”

He put his hands in his pockets--empty--and stared at the ground. 

“The townspeople are friendly. We shall pay the baker a visit, what do you think? I am quite hungry.”

“I--well--” 

“--I shall of course buy you lunch,” Hercules looked at his ward, smiling warmly, “Do not worry, Alexander.”

Hamilton chewed his lip, forced a thankful smile.

The sun grew warmer in the sky as the minutes passed, but the breeze was cold. As they entered the town, Alexander looked around at the myriad of people in different clothing: some bundled up, some sweating. A group of children ran past him barefoot, catching him off guard. They screamed with laughter, and a mangy dog soon followed behind them with a stick. He looked around for their parents.

“The miller’s children,” Hercules answered his thoughts. He indicated to a shop to their right, “Poor man has seven, and his wife is sick, too. This way--”

Alexander followed Hercules into the bakery, and as the smell of fresh bread hit his nostrils, he realized how hungry he’d become. His stomach growled loudly, embarrassingly, in the quiet shop. 

“Mulligan!” The baker, or whom Alexander assumed was the baker, came out from the back, covered in flour. He raised both hands in greeting, “A welcome face!”

The two men hugged a greeting, and the baker looked at Alexander, “And this must be the ward?”

“Yes. This is Alexander.”

The baker reached out and in an act of familiarity Alexander wasn’t prepared for, clamped a large hand on his shoulder, sending a puff of flour encircling his head, ‘Well any friend of Hercules is a friend of mine. My name is Connor. And how are you liking your day in the town?”

“Well, we just got here, so I suppose I haven’t really had the chance to really look around,” Hamilton answered.

“Are you two hungry?” The baker looked from Hercules to the younger man expectantly. 

“Yes. We wanted the sweetbread,” Hercules ordered for both of them. Alexander looked at him.

The baker’s face darkened, “Ah. I am sorry, Hercules, but I have none made.”

He looked at Hercules, then Alexander, expectantly. Hercules sighed. 

“I see. No sugar still?”

“None, not a grain.”

Hamilton studied the interior of the bakery, and was hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia. The tiny papers on the windowsill --receipts and bills--the curtains catching in the light, swaying in the afternoon breeze. The dusty counters in front of shelves full of products. A lump rose up in his throat. 

“I am sorry, Alexander, I wanted to share with you my favorite treat, but alas!”

The baker turned his back and began searching through the shelves of bread, “You shouldn’t be apologizing, Hercules, it’s the bloody taxes. Not your fault.”

He shifted some loaves around, and then, “Here! This is comparable, I believe. Not quite as sweet but still good. The raisins add a little extra flavor...”

Alexander vaguely heard the two men discussing the sugarless bread, and their voices faded from his mind. He walked over to the window, looking outside at the scenery. He touched a shelf nearby-- a thick book, no doubt filled with inventories and daily sales tallies--

“--Interested in working as my bookkeeper, boy?” Connor asked from behind his counter, interrupting Alexander’s nostalgia. “Can’t say it’s exciting work, but--”

“--No, no,” Hercules interjected, “You’re not recruiting this one. He’s got a years’ worth of studying at the academy in New Jersey, and then university. He’s done all the bookkeeping he needs to do for one lifetime.”

“I’m sure I could help out if I had time,” Alexander turned to look at the two older men. Connor gave Hercules a smug smile. Hercules laughed. 

“Just how many hours in the day do you think there are, Alexander?”

Alexander turned back to the books, “I’m quick.”

“There, you see? He’s quick,” Conner cut in jovially. 

“Barber’s will have you studying from dawn until midnight. You’ll have no time to fix this old fool’s incomprehensible books,” Hercules walked over to Alexander, and took him under his arm. He waved a goodbye at the baker, and led the teenager back into the street. 

He handed him a piece of the bread, “Try this. Tell me what you think.”

Alexander chewed, “It’s good. I can’t remember the last time I had a raisin.”

Hercules took a bite, speaking through a mouthful of crumbs, “Connor’s gotten better. A few months ago I bit into what I thought was a raisin and it was a fly. God bless him, he tries.”

Alexander sputtered, coughing up some of the bread into the dirt. Hercules didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re going to get more offers like that, I’ll wager. Everyone here needs help with bookkeeping and trying to make pounds out of pennies. I’ve seen three different businesses shut their doors this year, with the taxes so high. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s three more families who can’t earn a living,” Hercules led him to a different shop: a tall, thin building. Alexander peered inside at the books for sale. 

After a few minutes of haggling, Hercules has purchased Alexander a set of journals and several new volumes of textbooks. Alexander thanked him quietly. 

“You needn’t be embarrassed, Alexander,” he said, leading him back out of the shop. “The money raised for you is for these specifically,” Hercules tapped the books. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans in St. Croix.”

The pair walked on through the town, Hercules pleasantly introducing Alexander to anyone and everyone he could, sharing brief anecdotes with the teenager before announcing him. At first, Alexander was unsure how to respond. After three or four introductions, Alexander got the hang of it. 

“That’s Mrs. Adamson,” Hercules mumbled, coming upon an old woman, “She’s deaf as a plank of wood, so you’ll have to speak up.”

“Those are the Freemans-- all twelve of them. Religious, dour. Don’t smile--”

“Over there is a man called Peter who lives in the barn behind the-- _don’t look-_ -behind the miller’s. He’s got a love for young boys. Keep away.”

And on and on-- Alexander struggled to remember the names and tack them onto his mental list. As if reading his mind, Hercules spoke, “You won’t need to remember most of these people on a day to day basis, mind you, but if you’re going to be staying in the area you’ll want to be a familiar face to them.”

Alexander pulled a loose strand of hair off his shirt, “That’s good, then. I’m terrible with remembering names.”

Hercules let out a short bark of laughter, and the pair made their way back to his home, “The only names you need to remember are mine and my family’s, for now. Come. They’re waiting for us.”

****

“I will thank you not to start rumors about me, Matt,” Aaron said, yanking open the door to the book shop. He’d been quiet during their walk into town, but could not hold his peace any longer. Instead of confusion, Matt wore a look of defensiveness. 

“Oh, come now. No one is starting _rumors_. You’re not that interesting,” he said, stepping into a thin aisle, flanked by two tall sets of shelves. He dropped his voice as if they were in a library, “Was Bellamy’s really that bad? Did he decide to take you on as a student or did he kick you out for being a nuisance?”

Aaron made a face, “Was that your plan? To sabotage my education?”

“I don’t have any plans,” Matt responded. “It’s not my fault, anyway. You know Hyer gossips more than a little girl. He probably told some patrons, who told other patrons, who told other--”

“--Yes. Alright. Thank you,” Aaron turned pink, reaching for a volume. 

“Well? What’s this about, then?”

Aaron shot him a look, “Jon said my reputation preceded me. He didn’t say where he heard about me, only that he heard something. And you’re the only one who knows my secrets.”

Matt shrugged, “Maybe you’re not as cunning as you think you are.”

“Or maybe I have a cousin who likes to tell stories to get attention.”

“Look at this,” Matt pulled a book from the shelf, “Look at the cover.”

“She’s naked.”

“I’m buying it.”

Aaron took the book from him impatiently, shoving it back onto the shelf, “No you’re not. Grow up.”

“I would say that book is _extremely_ grown,” Matt replied, chuckling to himself. 

“You need to stop spending money on useless trifles and stop talking about me when I’m not around. I’m serious. We need to start thinking about the future, and careers, and ambitions--”

Matt put both hands up, “Lord Jesus, what’s gotten into you?”

The two teenage boys rounded a corner. Aaron answered his cousin. 

“It is hitting me, all at once. We are not in school anymore. _Now_ is the moment when we have the most energy to really make a difference, and make something of ourselves. I realized it on the way home from Bellamy’s. This is it, Matt.”

Matt made a rude noise with his mouth. Then, “One whiff of the afterlife and suddenly you’ve turned into a penitent monk. Don’t be boring.”

Aaron bit his tongue.

“I give you six months, tops. You already don’t want to be there. Lying to yourself about it won’t make it any easier, you know.”

The two boys squeezed past an old man who was studying a wrinkled newspaper, frowning, saying excuse me. 

“That’s what I am saying. This is my chance to really try.”

Matt reached up several shelves high to grab a thick book hanging off the edge, leafing through it, “Do you want to make a bet?”

“What?”

“I said,” Matt slammed the book shut, giving Aaron his full attention, “Do you want to make a bet?”

Aaron scoffed, “A bet about what?”

“About how long you’ll last at Bellamy’s.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Aaron turned his back and made his way towards a shelf of loose pamphlets, shifting through them idly. The grimy, bleeding-ink illustrations stood out harshly against the cream colored parchments. He was careful not to get any of it on his fingers. He stared at an etching of a man holding a rifle towards the head of a snake. 

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” Matt said behind him, with a grin. 

Aaron spun around, “That’s not the point.”

“Then make the bet. Fifty shillings you won’t last six months.”

 _“Fifty?_ Are you out of your mind?”

Matt shrugged, “That’s up to you, whether you want to pay it or not.”

Aaron thought about the week spent at the Bellamy’s: the warm reception, the relaxing bath, the cozy room, Jon’s thoughtfulness. _How bad would it be, really? How hard could six months be?_ He stared at Matt, who brought a hand up, outstretched. 

“No more rumors about me,” Aaron pointed at his cousin. “If I hear anything else about that stupid tavern I’ll know exactly who started it.”

“That can be part of the deal.”

“Say it.”

Matt’s hand lowered slightly, “Say what?”

 _“State the terms of the bet,”_ Aaron widened his eyes impatiently. 

“Fine. Six months from the date you start. You have to stay and study without leaving or even saying you want to go home. And I will not make matters more difficult by spreading rumors.” Matt put his hand solemnly on his heart. Then, he held it out to shake. 

Aaron looked at it for a moment.

“Deal.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Matt grinned, shaking his hand. He broke free and reached for another book. “I can’t wait. Either way, you win, you know. Either you end up fifty shillings richer or you end up an ordained minister.”

****

It was several days of Hamilton repeating his same story to the rest of the Mulligans, who listened intently every time, and came up with more and more questions, that by the end of the fifth retelling Alexander felt his patience wane. The beat in his head of the names went on.

 _Rachel. Peter. Stevens. Knox. Hercules._

“His name is Livingston,” Hercules said, walking into the living room where Hamilton sat, one afternoon, books scattered around him. “The man who runs Barber’s academy. You will be meeting him, and perhaps his colleague Mr. Boudinot. You will be staying there for the next year while you finish your studies at the academy and prepare for Princeton.”

The older man pulled out a letter from his pocket, and handed it to Alexander, smiling, “His son is your age and attends the same school. I believe there are a number of boys there now, all preparing for their college studies. Should do you a bit better than staying here.”

Hercules smiled broader as Hamilton scanned the letter, “I am...to be leaving you so soon?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so upset. Hercules’ grin faded only slightly. 

“Well, it really isn’t so far. You would be able to leave on weekends for visits, if the timing of your studies permit,” the older man offered. Alexander’s eyes darted around the letter, looking for keywords. He thought about the fun, lively dinners he’d shared with the Mulligans, and a pit formed in his stomach. 

“So,” Alexander began, “When am I to leave?”

Hercules exhaled and sat near him on a wooden chair, the joints creaking as he leaned into it, “Whenever you wish, so long as it’s within the next week. The school has only just opened and Livingston is desirous of filling it up quickly with bright young minds. He’s a bit of a collector.”

Alexander looked over at his guardian-- the first time he’d felt safe and welcomed in nearly three years -- and the pit in his stomach deepened. Hercules sensed something was wrong, and sighed.

“Now you know this is for the best, Alexander,” he said softly, “It will not do to keep that mind of yours locked away in my spare bedroom.”

“I have learned more here than anywhere else I’ve been,” Hamilton countered.

Hercules laughed, “I am flattered you think my own mind covers as wide a range of topics as this academy and all its professors. But we cannot wile away the hours philosophizing about liberty.” Hercules offered another smile. “You will eventually have to go out and _make_ something of yourself, you know.”

Alexander looked at the book in front of him; the copious notes.

“What have you got there?” Hercules walked over. “Looks like you’ve already started your studies.”

“The Iliad,” Alexander lifted the heavy book. He glanced at his notes. As if reading his mind, Hercules picked one up. 

“You must have fifty pages here already. How long have you been at work?”

“Since dawn.”

“Ah! I thought I heard you, then. My wife was convinced we had rats.”

Alexander let out a small laugh, “I work better in the mornings.”

“Four am, Alexander?”

The teenager shrugged, “I find my brain is more alert as soon as I wake up, rather than after the drudgery of the day has settled on it. By the time the evening hits I am afraid I’m useless.”

“We will have to inform Mr. Livingston, then,” Hercules grinned at him, teasing “I will let him know you prefer to retire in the evenings, perhaps with a nice drink and a snack.”

Alexander smiled and watched the older man leave the living room. He turned back to the small desk he was sitting at. He took a thumb and ruffled through the pages, briefly wondering what, exactly, he would learn at the academy that he couldn’t already teach himself.

****

Aaron stared at the ceiling of the small bedroom, his thoughts running laps in his head. Matt hadn’t kept his promise about not gossiping, and the letters from his friends poured in.

_Fifty shillings._

He was in the same bedroom that he’d stayed in when he first visited Bellamy, and made himself at home after two weeks. A letter caught his eye-- and he could hear Samuel’s voice.

_It is a little strange to me that I have not heard anything of you since your examination. I don't know if you are dissatisfied, since you are so backward to write; however, I will, if possible, keep such thoughts out of my mind till I hear from you in particular._

It had been different, at first, coming to stay with Dr. Bellamy after his blow-up with Witherspoon and the small-minded professors-- but then, like nightfall, monotony darkened his horizon. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and tried to replay scenes of more exciting times in his mind’s eye. Each vignette ended the same way, with him storming out of Witherspoon’s office, his pride assuring him he’d gotten the better of the situation. 

Surely _this_ was the proper path. He imagined his ties being cut one by one, imagined his soul steeling itself for independence.

_The study of divinity is agreeable-- I hope to see the time when you will feel it your duty to go into the same study with a desire for the ministry._

The letter fluttered; a draft from the shoddy window flew through the room. Aaron stared at it as the paper fell to the floor. It wasn’t enough. Bellamy was intelligent, kind, patient-- everything Witherspoon _wasn’t_ \--so why was he feeling so _dejected._

_Remember, that was the prayer of your dear father and mother, and is the prayer of your friends--that you should step forth into his place, and make it manifest that you are a friend to Heaven, and that you have a taste for its glory._

“Bed already?” Jon opened the door quietly, talking low. “I thought you’d want to keep going.”

“I was cold, and needed the covers,” Aaron hoisted himself up on his elbows, “And I am in a more pensive mood.”

Jon shut and latched the door behind him, taking inventory of the room. Several piles of clothes sat in various places around the room-- a linen shirt strewn across a chair, shining boots crumpled underneath the small window on the far wall--the tiny fireplace died slowly, still providing the room with passable heating. He walked over to the desk and picked up Samuel’s letter, placing it back on the desk.

Aaron looked at his friend, “Some malevolence has settled on me.”

“If you insist on staring at the ceiling instead of filling your mind with more interesting thoughts, I should think so. “When the mind is unoccupied, it breeds evil thoughts.”

Aaron laid on his back again, “That old adage.”

“How is your back feeling?” Jon dropped his voice. 

“The balm helped,” Aaron replied. “I’ve never used it before. Even some of the darker scars have disappeared.”

Jon leaned against the chair, letting a tiny smile appear on his mouth, “I’m glad. My father would be furious if he knew I had it. I overheard some of the servants talking about balms and cures they made. I inquired about it and bought one from a little old African woman one town over. My father doesn’t believe in what he calls ‘easy cures’-- thinks every type of pain can be prayed away.”

Aaron unbuttoned his shirt, showing the other boy his back, “Look for yourself and see.”

Jon eyed his skin, “Indeed.”

The two were quiet again while Aaron refastened his shirt. Jon spoke first. 

“You were distracted today, during the service.”

“Can you blame me?” Aaron tried for a joke. “Who kept coughing? I thought they were going to hack up an entire lung.”

Jon laughed again, looking down, then back up at the other boy, “That was Williams. He smokes a pipe. You should be more kind.”

“He was trying to interrupt the word of the Lord.”

“Well you can tell him that next week at dinner. He’s joining us.” Jon pulled the chair out and sat down. He slouched, crossing his arms. Aaron fell back into the bed. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. He was so touched by my father’s sermon he wants to come visit and speak with him. Maybe with us, too. He is...what was the phrase you just used? Some malevolence has settled on him. So, maybe you will be able to relate to him.”

“How does your father expect me to study if I’m to be giving my attentions to old men?”

“That’s all part of it. You will learn to converse with people about themselves, and make them feel better. That is part of the job, I’m afraid,” Jon said, yawning. He regarded Aaron for another moment. “If I leave you here, promise me you won’t spend the rest of the evening staring dolefully at the ceiling.”

“I won’t. I’ve got plenty of books here to keep me occupied.” Aaron motioned around him, taking inventory of the mess. His gaze landed on the letter from Samuel. He heard Jon stand, and turned to watch him leave.


	11. Recluse

Alexander waited nervously in the front parlor of the large white building. From the outside, it looked like a manor house: tall rectangular windows on the first, second and third floors. An imposing, ascending staircase leading to the porch and front door. The naked trees’ shadows cris-crossed against the parallel lines of the white wooden planks. It was foreboding. 

He looked around the front parlor, caught a glimpse of himself in a small mirror to his left. He’d had to borrow money from Hercules for a new pair of shoes-- _that still don’t fit right_ \-- and a hand-made set of linen shirts from Mrs. Mulligan-- _who stayed up all night making them for you_ \-- 

“--God,” Hamilton whispered, noticing a missing button from his pants. He looked down at his leg, picked at it, and a second button fell off. It hit the floor with a surprisingly loud clatter in the quiet foyer and landed underneath a side table. 

“ _No--_ ” He placed his small stack of books down on the table, and dropped to his hands and knees, in search of the tiny button, squinting in the dim light. 

“Hello?” Another male voice called from the top of the stairs. 

“Oh-- blasted--” Alexander scrambled as he closed his fingers around the button, shooting upright just in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered boy of a similar age descending the staircase. He felt his face burn, and touched his hair absentmindedly-- _You look like a fool._

The other boy regarded him, “Are you… did you...have an appointment here?”

“Hello, sorry, yes,” Alexander quickly shoved the button in his pocket, and held out a hand, “Alexander Hamilton. I was meant to meet Mr. Livingston in fifteen minutes, I suppose I’m a _bit_ early, but--”

The other boy shook his hand, “Jonathan Dayton. Mr. Livingston will be around shortly. I’ve just come down to see what they have in the kitchens. I am afraid non-students aren’t allowed in the back...but you can have a seat here.”

The other boy indicated to a smaller room with several chairs around a table, and Alexander acquiesced. He watched as the other student made his way to the back of the house, and down a staircase to the cellar. He was much taller than Alexander, with a large nose and good bone structure. Alexander looked at him until he disappeared, curious. 

Just then, Mr. Livingston rounded the corner, and smiled as he regarded the new pupil. Hamilton stood, suddenly feeling how dry his mouth was. 

“You must be Alexander,” Another handshake, “I am William Livingston. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long?”

Hamilton cleared his throat, “No, not at all. I was just...admiring the house.” He raised his hand awkwardly; placed it in his pocket. 

“Yes, well. The house is relatively new, but I am sure in time she will show her age,” Livingston grinned. Then, “Shall we begin the tour?”

Livingston walked him down the hallway, which seemed much smaller inside that it had outside, thought Hamilton. He ran his hand along the new banisters and could even smell a bit of paint. The windows let in the late afternoon sunlight and warmed the rooms pleasantly. And, he noticed, the rooms were blessedly absent of mosquitoes. 

“We were supposed to be joined by my associate Mr. Boudinot, but his infant is sick, poor thing, and so I’ve given him some time off,” Mr. Livingston remarked. “There are six rooms upstairs, and seven downstairs. The downstairs is where you will have most of your classes.”

The older man led him to a room in the back of the house, and knocked on a door, pushing it ajar slightly, “Mr. Reeve, are you in here?”

“Yes-- hello!” Another teacher stood from behind his desk. He shook Alexander’s hand warmly. The teenager studied him-- young and good-looking. Too young, Alexander thought, to be a teacher.

“This is Mr. Reeve, our law professor. You will spend a lot of time with him, I am sure,” Mr. Livingston said. He nodded and closed the door, leading Alexander further into the maze of rooms and doors.

“I know what you are thinking, and yes, he is old enough to teach!” Livingston said, smiling. “He is quite young, but we want the best. No matter the age. Over here is the kitchen--”

The older man trailed off, and Alexander felt his eyes glaze. He knew he wouldn’t be able to remember everything. 

The pair made their way up the stairs.

“These will be your quarters. You will be rooming with my son Henry Brockholst-- he is about your age as well. Have you met any of the other boarders?”

“I-- well, just one, he seemed a bit younger than me--”

“Ah, that must have been Dayton,” Livingston nodded his head, “he is our youngest pupil. Follow me--”

Livingston led Alexander to a small room at the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs _\--A bit stuffy._ The older man seemed to read his mind, and walked into the bedroom before him to crack the windows. 

“It does get a bit warm in here, even in the autumn and winter. South-facing window, you see,” Livingston grunted as he pushed the glass just a crack. At the moment, another student walked in behind them, whom Alexander assumed to be Henry.

“Ah, Henry! Glad you came in,” the older man wrapped his arm around his son, who was a miniature version of his father, but with considerably fewer wrinkles, and a scowl. 

“Hello,” the other teenager said, lifting his hand and dropping it again lazily. 

Alexander smiled, felt his dry lips crack painfully. 

“You’re bleeding a bit, just there,” Henry replied, pointing to Alexander’s mouth.

“Oh dear,” Alexander responded, bringing a finger to his bottom lip and blushing, “Yes it’s...er, the air is quite dry here.”

Livingston busied himself with straightening s bowl and pitcher of water on the nightstand next to what Hamilton assumed was his bed. 

“Right here is some fresh water, Alexander, if you need it. Washcloths are underneath, just here,” The older man indicated to some cabinets. 

Henry reached into his pocket and handed Alexander a handkerchief, “Just take this. You can keep it if you want. My mother makes them by the baleful.”

Hamilton smiled in spite of himself, saw a flicker of a grin on the other boy. 

“It’s all she knows how to make,” he dropped his voice so his father wouldn’t hear. Livingston checked the trunk at the end of the bed for extra blankets. The two boys jumped as the trunk lid slipped from Livingston’s hands and closed with a slam. 

“Oh! I didn’t mean to do that, sorry boys,” he mumbled. He clasped his hands, and looked around. “Making sure I haven’t forgotten anything!”

“We’re fine, father,” Henry cut in, rather impatiently. 

“Do remember that classes begin at eight am on the dot, no dawdling--”

“--Mr. Livingston, do we have any bread?” A younger voice cut in from down the hall, and Dayton poked his head into the bedroom. Alexander smiled at him, nodded.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know you were having a meeting,” Dayton said.

“I told you, Jonathan, the bread is made in the mornings on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. If it is gone, it is gone and you will have to wait.”

“Yes but all we have downstairs are old apples--”

“--Then you will march yourself to the market and buy what you need. I will not have a mess in the kitchen before dinner. Can you wait until supper? Four hours.” Mr. Livingston put his hand on the boy’s back and led him down the hallway. Alexander could hear their voices fading-- Dayton’s pleading, Livingston’s stern and fatherly-- trail off. A tiny pang of longing fluttered in his stomach. 

“So. What do you think?” Henry interrupted Alexander’s thoughts. He laid himself back onto his own bed and looked at his roommate. “Is it everything you hoped for, and more?”

Alexander smiled again, careful not to disturb his dry mouth again, “I suppose it meets my extremely low standards.”

Finally, the other boy let out a small laugh, and Alexander let himself relax. 

“My father is over-zealous whenever a new pupil comes in. Wants to really impress them.”

“Well, it worked.” Alexander exhaled and put his small bag of books on the table next to his bed, and sat down. The wooden frame creaked, and he sank into it. “I’m used to much worse”

“Be thankful Boudinot isn’t here. Sometimes he sings at you. Says it’s easier to remember things when they’re set to song,” Henry replied, turning to grab a thin book off the floor on the far side of his bed. He flipped a few pages then settled in. “Who else is here… ah. Mr. Reeve.”

Hamilton watched his eyes scan the page rapidly, “Who?”

Henry looked at him, “Mr. Reeve. You met him, right?”

Alexander suddenly felt silly, “Oh-- yes. Of course--”

“-- I thought you would know him through the Burrs. Aaron is his brother in law.” The younger Livingston shrugged and went back to reading, “Aaron told me he’d met you. I assumed he told you about his family. They’re quite friendly. Mr. Reeve is an excellent tutor.”

Hamilton felt even sillier, “No-- I never heard a thing. I met Burr last year and he never mentioned--”

Henry waved his hand dismissively, “--Don’t worry about it. No one tells anyone anything around here. But I suppose it’s a good thing to be friendly with him if you want to eventually study at Princeton.”

Alexander felt himself grow warm again, “I never said...I mean, I never told anyone that--”

“--It was on your transcripts, the ones from Hercules Mulligan and Reverend Knox. He wrote that you wanted to prepare for Princeton.”

“And how did _you_ come across those?”

Henry looked at him, opened and closed his mouth, searching for words, “I mean-- my father asked me to help organize some papers last week, and it caught my eye--”

“That is snooping.”

The other boy sat up straighter, “No, you mustn’t think I was being nosy. I only bring it up because Dayton and I both have plans to attend as well. I was just trying to make conversation, I swear.”

Alexander scowled at him, still red. “Fine. Yes. I just didn’t want anyone to know in case things...well. Didn’t work according to plan.”

“Fair enough,” Henry replied, looking back at his text. 

Hamilton busied himself with unpacking his books and placing them on a small shelf, taking care to put them just-so-- taking extra care so as to avoid conversation. With his back to Henry, Alexander closed his eyes and tried to steady his mind. 

_You’ll want to be friendly with his family-- Burr._

“How do I… you know. Impress Reeve?” Alexander heard himself ask, the words leaving his mouth as if they pained him. 

He turned to face Henry, who shrugged, “Just be a diligent student, I suppose. Dayton and I have plans to meet a group of students next weekend. You should come. It will help to be as well-connected as possible.”

Alexander inhaled deeply, “Yes. I suppose that’s the best course of action.”

****

As Jon had promised, old man Williams was a guest at the Bellamy household the next week.

Aaron spent the evening observing Dr. Bellamy and the old man speaking together in the drawing room, their voices obscured by a pair of glass doors. He sat at the table in the dining room next to Jon, who swirled his mashed potatoes disinterestedly. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Aaron eyed them

Jon sighed, “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My father promised me I’d get to talk to him, too. But it looks like the conversation’s turned too serious for us.”

As if overhearing them-- which Jon assured Aaron was impossible--Williams and Bellamy stood and made their way to the dining room. Jon straightened his back, and stood as his father approached.

Williams nodded a greeting at both the teenagers, then grabbed his hat, and walked out the door without a second look.

Behind him into the dining room came the elder Bellamy, wearing a sad, small smile. 

“Apologies for that, boys.” Bellamy pulled a chair out, and sat down with them. “I know I promised an audience with the man, but he was embarrassed.”

Jon sat down, still sulking, “How are we supposed to reach out to the community if you hide them away from us? What troubles of his could be so bad that we couldn’t help.”

Aaron looked from father to son. Bellamy gazed at Jon.

“Williams is struggling, in his heart. He needed another old man, like me, to relate to. Surely you can grant him that, Jon? What about you, Aaron?” Bellamy turned his eyes toward the other teenager. Aaron blinked, waiting. 

Bellamy went on, “What do you think is the proper course in this situation? Is it better to be comforted by someone who might share the same biases in a time of personal crisis? Or is it a chance to push yourself to experience new, and perhaps challenging ideas?”

Aaron opened his mouth to answer, and Jon cut him off.

“Aaron and I have done nothing these past few weeks but study from dawn until midnight. It is time for us to get some practical learning.”

“I think it is better to be challenged,” Aaron answered softly. Bellamy studied him for a moment. 

“Well. Alright.” He took a sip of his drink, then, “Williams is being unfaithful to his wife.”

Jon stared at his father, “That’s not that out of the ordinary, though, forgive me--”

“--It is with another man.” Bellamy cut him off, exhaling. 

Aaron looked up at the reverend curiously, and Jon put his fork down, staring into his plate. 

“I see,” Jon said quietly. 

“Does that make the severity of the crime any stronger, do you think?” Bellamy asked both teenagers. Aaron averted his eyes. “Which is the bigger crime?”

The two boys were silent. Aaron stole a glance at Jon, hoping for some kind of guidance. Jon stared into his half-finished plate. Aaron fidgeted in his seat. 

“Infidelity,” Bellamy said, looking at each boy in turn. “Williams made the decision to betray his wife-- that is the first sin, and ultimately the one that begets the others.”

Jon pushed a green bean around his plate. 

Bellamy went on, “Had Williams not listened to the temptation to betray his wife, he would not have found physical satisfaction in the arms of another, regardless of sex. It is always the first sin that urges us on to the others. The first is the hardest and most important. And with practice, we get better at it. That is the danger.”

Aaron stared at the older man, “That makes sense, Reverend.”

Bellamy nodded at him, then looked at his son. Jon took a bite of his food and nodded quickly.

After dinner, the teenagers found themselves in Jon’s room, pouring over a stack of books that had been sitting on Jon’s desk. Aaron sprawled out on the bed, and Jon sat in a small wooden chair. The fire crackled and popped.

“Overall, I am glad your father spared us from talking to Williams. I don’t know what I would have told him. Uncle Timothy used to petition for sodomites to be hanged.” Aaron said lazily. He lay on his back, holding one of the books at arm’s length, eyes scanning the pages rapidly. 

“You should be taking notes on that. You won’t remember any of it.” Jon said. 

Aaron rolled over onto his stomach, “One time he made me watch a hanging. Matt and I. I was nine.”

“Uncle Timothy needs the Lord more than Williams,” Jon muttered, taking a quill and scratching something on a piece of parchment. Aaron eyed him,

“Well, I mean-- the law is the law.”

 _“The law is the law,”_ Jon repeated in a mocking voice. Aaron pushed himself up on the bed and tossed a balled up paper at him. Jon laughed, ducking it. Then, in a kinder tone, “I don’t know. I feel rather bad for Williams. I’ve seen his wife. She’s no beauty.”

“Uglier than men?” Aaron asked, incredulous. “Must be some hideousness.”

Jon grinned, “Come on. It can’t be all that bad.”

Aaron rubbed his eyes, falling back, “No thank you.”

He heard Jon rustle in his seat, flipping through papers. Then, “If I tell you something-- you have to promise not to repeat it. Especially not within earshot of Matthew Ogden.” He concluded pointedly

Aaron hoisted himself up again, ears perked, “Oh, I love the sound of this already.” 

“Promise.”

“I promise. Now tell me before I get bored.”

Jon bit his lip, “The reason I can’t feel too bad for Williams is because...I understand him, if you follow me.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, “ _Should_ you be confessing this?”

“It’s nothing scandalous. We were thirteen. Neither one of us had kissed a girl and we wanted to know what it was like,” Jon reasoned. “He was some farmer’s boy, outside of town. My father was visiting the parents for dinner. Their infant had just passed and they needed him.”

“This just keeps getting worse, Jon,” Aaron responded with a chuckle. 

“It was nothing. He and I did it in the barn,” Jon continued, laughing. “What a sight for the chickens. Regardless, I perfected my craft that day.”

Aaron dropped his voice, “I have a distinct feeling Williams is doing far more than just kissing other men.”

Jon turned in his seat, “What I mean to say is that -- well. I understand the urge, that’s all.”

Aaron eyed him, searching the other boy’s face. Outside, the night winds picked up, and rain began to fall. The sound of the hard droplets against the glass made a pretty song, filtering in and out of Aaron’s ears as he pondered possibilities. 

“Alright. Tonight is the night for confessions, I suppose,” Aaron sighed. He spoke matter-of-factly. Jon let a small smile play on his mouth. He put down his quill and gave Aaron his full attention.

“It has nothing to do with kissing boys in front of chickens,” Aaron began, situating himself into an upright position on the mattress, back against the headboard. “It was...well. I suppose nothing ever came of it, other than some discomfort of the mind. Dreams, that sort of thing.”

Jon tilted his head to the side, “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“At Princeton I had a tutor called Paterson. He was several years older than me. Twenty seven, twenty eight. He sent me this...letter...describing....” Aaron faltered, turned red and laughing. He made a gesture with his hand in front of his crotch. 

Jon’s face split into an even wider grin and he tilted his head back, cackling. He resumed his disbelieving gaze, “No. _Really_?”

“Yes, really. He described it like having an urge to write. And then scribbling and spilling ink everywhere,” Aaron finished. “And then a few nights later I had a dream about him-- doing that to me.”

“Touching you?”

“Yes. Christ,” Aaron covered his face, “If your father ever found out--”

“--He’d say a prayer for both of us. A couple of lost souls, writhing in the pit of unnatural lusts.” Jon finished drolly. 

“I’ve never told another soul, mind you,” Aaron looked at the other boy pointedly. “You have to swear to keep it secret. 

Jon lifted a quill as if in mock-toast, “Just you, me and the rain.” He indicated toward the window. 

****

After several weeks of acquainting himself with life at the academy, Alexander tacked another name to the list of people responsible for him.

_Rachel. The Lyttons. Stevens. Knox. Hercules. Livingston._

The cadence was thrown off. Alexander frowned and shook his head to himself in the dark bedroom. Henry turned over in his sleep and groaned. The single candle flickered at Alexander’s desk as he thought of a poem. He picked up a loose sheet of paper, some notes on Genesis. 

“It is only just the beginning!” He remembered Boudinot saying _._ It was his first day of class, and Boudinot thought he was being clever. “You will start with translations of Genesis, and work your way through the entire Bible.”

Alexander put a hand on his Bible, picking at a loose thread on the binding. 

“What the hell…” he heard Henry mutter from his bed, stirring, “...Alexander? What are you doing?”

Alexander straightened his back, “Studying.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Three thirty. Four.” Alexander flipped idly through his notes. Henry grunted and readjusted himself. 

“Bloody stupid. Go back to bed for God’s sake.”

“I can’t sleep with the chill,” Alexander replied in a strained whisper. 

“Well _I_ can’t sleep with the windows shut.” Henry shot back. “You can always ask for more blankets.”

Alexander slumped in his chair and looked back at his notes. _Genesis, Book One, Chapter One. It’s only the beginning._ His head hurt. 

“Are you going to go back to bed like a normal person or are you going to sit there making a fuss?”

“What?”

“Boudinot isn’t going to care if you’ve sat up all night doing homework. As long as it’s finished he won’t question it,” Henry reasoned.

“Just close your eyes and ignore me.”

“I can’t sleep with the blasted candle lit,” Henry said, a little louder. 

Alexander shot back, “Do you sleep with your eyes open?”

Henry swung his feet over the side of the bed and marched over to the other student and made an attempt to blow out the candle. Alexander stood up and blocked him, “Don’t--you--dare--”

A scuffle ensued; a loud thumping on their shared wall. Dayton’s muffled plea, “Will you two shut the hell up?”

Alexander shot Henry a self-righteous look, “See? If you had just let it be you wouldn’t have woken the entire house!”

 _“You’re_ the one who--”

Dayton pushed their door open, looking haggard, whispering, “What the hell is going on in here? Will you two shut up?”

“Alexander wants to stay up all night studying. Trying to impress the teachers and make everyone else look bad,” Henry raised a hand, pointing. 

Alexander burned, “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll go find some place else to study. But when you two dolts need extra help with your translations do not come begging to me--” he gathered his notes and pushed past them.

He headed angrily down the hall and down the stairs, grabbing a thick coat from the rack by the door. He wrapped it around himself and in his frustration tripped over a loose stone at the bottom of the front steps. Alexander swore, and kicked it, his breath making white clouds in the dead night air. 

He shivered, slowing down as he walked further from the house. Alexander looked around him for a place to sit, stopping and dropping his shoulders as he realized there was none. 

“Christ. What am I doing…” Alexander looked around again. In the distance he caught sight of a few indistinct shapes. He made his way over to them, hoping they were benches. 

In several seconds, the indistinct shapes turned into stone grave markers, and Alexander grew even more despondent. He whipped his gaze to his left and right, realizing he was in a clearing of trees in a graveyard. He looked behind him, unable to make out the house anymore in the dark morning. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” Alexander muttered, a sudden wave of panic coursing over him. He pulled his coat tighter, shivering as the wind picked up. He took a deep breath; trying to steady himself. He jumped at the sound of crunching leaves.

Alexander walked further into the graveyard, heard racing, looking for a fence or an exit or something to indicate where, exactly, he was. A signpost, a road, a building--he chewed his lip. He finally came upon a path and a small clearing where a set of benches sat beneath a tree, facing a tall, intricate statue of Mary. 

He walked up to it slowly, looking around him, still shivering. He placed his papers down on one of the benches and his heavy book on top of it to prevent them from blowing away. He blinked, squinting in the darkness, trying to read the inscription on the tomb that time had ravaged. 

It was no use, and Alexander turned to face his pile of school work. 

He lifted his arms, letting them drop to his sides, “I suppose this will have to do.”

In the distance an owl hooted at him. 

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Owl.” Alexander said sarcastically, under his breath. He wrapped his scarf tighter and buttoned his coat, sitting on the cold bench, and pulling out his notes, a candle from his pocket, and a flint. 

****

“I wonder if Sally ever gets told she must ‘follow in the footsteps of her family’, or some other such nonsense, or if I am just extra lucky,” Aaron drawled from his usual position on Jon’s bed. He stared at his date book. It had been four months. 

Jon grunted an assent. Aaron looked at him. He looked tired-- they both were. It was the first time they’d made the rounds with the reverend, checking on the townspeople, starting before dawn. 

“It is terrible to think I shall become something similar to my father. I cannot let the thought marinate too long in my brain or it makes me depressed. I change my course of thinking, and then I see myself like Dr. Witherspoon, ill-tempered and unlikable.”

“You could never be unlikable,” Jon offered.

“That is not what everyone seems to think.”

“And who is everyone? Some old fools jealous of youth?” Jon laughed. “My father certainly thinks highly of you. As do I. As does nearly everyone you meet, I’ll wager. The girls at the boarding house this morning certainly seem to think you’re something special.”

“They’re never seen outside their bedrooms.”

Jon barked a laugh, “There’s a story I'd like to read.”

Aaron looked at his roommate. The dim lighting of the sunset outside cast his face in a flattering pink glow. His eyes were filled with a kind resolve. 

“If only it were just us,” Aaron began, “Why are we not able to choose our own course of study?”

“What would that be?”

Aaron was quiet.

Jon responded for him: “And there you go. Silence. _That_ is why. You don’t know _what_ you want, do you? Ever since you got here your mind’s been elsewhere. Can’t say I blame you, frankly. I know we’re not the most exciting little town.”

Aaron felt his own face warm, and a sudden wave of emotion coursed through him, embarrassingly, “Just something I’ve been thinking of, that’s all.” 

“Are you alright? I didn’t mean to upset you,” Jon moved a book from in front of him, closing it. “We can talk to my father about it tomorrow, if it helps. Perhaps you’re not ready for the public sermons just yet.”

“I am so frustrated,” Aaron covered his face, whispering. 

“Sit up.” Jon instructed him.

Aaron obeyed. He avoided the other boy’s gaze, choosing instead to stare at an unfinished essay in an open book sprawled carelessly on the floor. He swallowed, ran his hand through his hair, chewed his cheek and tasted metal. 

Jon watched his roommate’s mouth twitch with repressed emotion, “Tell me exactly what is bothering you. It will be good practice for me.”

_“I cannot end up like them.”_

“And who says you will?”

“Fate. Biology. Providence. Take your pick,” Aaron responded bitterly. He rubbed his eyes. Jon stood up and sat on the bed, situating himself next to the other boy. He paused for a moment, looking at his roommate, and then put a hand on his leg. The sun dipped below the horizon. 

“I fear ending up like my father, as well, Aaron. You and I are of the same mind, there.” Jon confessed quietly.

“It’s different for me and you know it.”

Jon pursed his lips, “You don’t seem to be doing a very good job of fighting it, then.”

“What? How am I supposed to fight it?” Aaron grew defensive. “What choices have I even been given? Everything has been decided for me like I am some pet.”

“Practice breaking away,” Jon said simply. 

Aaron growled, frustrated, “Practice _what_ , Jon?”

Before uttering a response, Jon leaned in and kissed his roommate on the lips. The shock took a second to settle in Aaron’s chest. The sensation coursed from his mouth to the tips of his fingers, shuddering in his stomach, and Aaron pulled away, reality pushing in.

“What are you doing?” Aaron replied, breathing heavily, mouth slightly ajar. “Are you out of your mind?”

Jon stared back at him defiantly, cheeks blazing red, “You say you don’t want to end up like your father and grandfather. You want to be something else. You can’t leave here, you can’t argue with your uncle. What other choices do you have? Do you want to rebel or not?”

Aaron looked at him, dumbstruck. He brought a hand to his lips in thought. All at once the dangerous thoughts and dreams that plagued him in his quiet hours came flooding into the forefront of his mind. 

Jon put a finger on the sheets, “I am sorry for being so bold, but if you want to be your own man you are going to have to disappoint _someone_.”

Finally, Aaron found his words.

“I thought-- I didn’t know you had those proclivities-- I thought the story about the farmer’s son was just...a child’s curiosity.”

“I am doing this for you, Aaron. You’re scared.”

Aaron made a noise, “Excuse me?”

Jon goaded him, triumphantly, “You say you want to rebel. Fine. All young men do, I suppose. But then when it comes down to it, you’re too timid to actually try.”

“And kissing you is trying, then, is it? I’m not your farm boy,” Aaron shot back, turning pink, trying to refocus on his notes. “Does your father know?”

“ _Of course not,_ ” Jon answered rapidly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well then the rebellion doesn’t count then, does it,” Aaron reasoned, looking back over at the boy. “What is the purpose of breaking the rules if no one knows you did it?”

Jon leaned in again, watching Aaron’s pupils dilate, “It’s about the practice. It is about steeling yourself for new experiences.” He bit his lip, stared at Aaron’s mouth, and moved in for another kiss. 

This time, Aaron responded, a pleasurable warm feeling spreading through his groin. He remembered the embarrassing ordeal with Hannah _. This is how that should have felt,_ his mind reasoned.

Jon moved, turning his head to the side and bringing his hand up to Aaron’s face, through his hair. He pulled away, their mouths millimeters apart, “You like rebelling.”

Aaron pulled away, softly, “I suppose I do.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The fire was still alight in Jon’s eyes. “A bit more of that, and you’ll be as different from your family as night from day.”

Aaron sunk into the sheets laughing, “Alright, fair. What’s your next step, then? Murder?”

“My next step is to find your uncle and scar his back as he did yours,” Jon said plainly. Aaron shot up.

“I told you never to bring that up again.”

Jon raised a hand, surrendering, “ _Fine._ Then I’ll find Paterson and humiliate him as he did you.”

“Good luck. The man is shameless.”

“What was your dream about him like?” Jon asked, matter-of-factly. He pushed several papers to the side; Aaron eyed him, the fluttering feeling returning to his stomach. 

“I told you. He touched me and I _liked_ it. In my dream.” 

Jon grinned again, pushing more papers from the bed, “But only in your dream.”

Aaron looked around the room: the locked door, the quiet, crackling fire. The isolation and the secrecy. His heart raced, eyes darting from object to object, trying, and failing, to come up with a reason not to continue the game. He finally settled his gaze on Jon, who moved around on the mattress, straddling Aaron between his legs.

“Is this more of your infernal ‘practice’ business? Haven’t I been a good enough student tonight? Or will you have me up until dawn, drilling it into me?”

Jon’s expression changed, lightened, “Oh, I _like_ that. And here I was thinking you were just another little reverend.” He plucked the book from Aaron’s hands, tossing it to the floor. 

****

Alexander woke to the feeling of a cold, wet nose on his face. He scrunched his features, slowly opening his eyes to a stray dog sniffing him. He sat up straight and waved his hand.

“Shoo-- go--!” Alexander moved around, sitting in the dirt against the tree. He began to panic.

Sometime in the early morning hours, sleep had gotten the better of the teenager, and he moved from the cold stone bench to the soft earth, back against an old oak tree. He looked around him, papers scattered to the wind. He saw his Bible still sitting in a pile of leaves and grabbed it, clutching it to his chest. 

“No...no...no…” Alexander repeated. He stood and tried to grab as many notes as he could. The stray dog thought it was a game and began bounding around him playfully. 

“Where is the-- not the _entire_ book of Genesis, please--”

The teenager felt his heart sink at the sight of what became of most of his notes: in the distance, a tiny pond flanked by rows of weeds. In the center, floating white sheets of parchment. The wind picked up around him and whipped another into the water. 

“God dammit!” Alexander yelled into the cold morning air. The dog barked at him in response. He turned his head, “What are _you_ so excited about? Bloody dog. You could have woken me.”

The dog barked again, tongue hanging out. Alexander put a hand to his forehead, wondering what time it was and how much trouble he’d be in once he got back to the school. He grabbed his Bible tighter and in the bright light of day was able to find his way back to the academy.

As soon as he stepped inside, he was accosted by Dayton. The younger boy chewed on a thick roll covered in honey. He spoke, mouth full.

“Where the hell have you been? You know it’s nearly nine am, right?”

“Don’t ask.”

Dayton looked back out the front window, “Is that a dog?”

“It followed me. Where is everyone?” Alexander hung his coat up.

“Reeve’s. You’re lucky it’s just him. He’s soft. Not like the other tutors,” Dayton reasoned. “Do you think Livingston will let us keep him?”

Alexander walked past the mirror and straightened his vest, pulled a leaf out of his hair, “Reeve?”

“No, idiot. The _dog_.”

“How the hell should I know?” Alexander sighed, closed his eyes and steadied himself. “I was in the graveyard. The one down the road. I fell asleep by accident. Don’t give me that look--”

“--Graveyards make me nervous,” Dayton swallowed the last of his roll. He pointed to the small classroom down the hall, “Let’s go. It’s just you and me today. Nine to noon. Then we can grab lunch or something.”

Alexander walked behind the tall boy, “You’re already hungry for lunch? Unbelievable. You know some people go _days_ without eating.”

Dayton reached the small classroom and opened the door, hailing a greeting at Reeve. The tutor smiled in turn at each of his pupils. 

“Hello Jonathan, Alexander-- please come take your seats,” Reeve indicated two empty desks. He studied Alexander, his smile fading, “Alexander...is that-- you have a bit of fur stuck to your collar, just there--”

Dayton turned to look at him and burst out laughing. Alexander blushed and felt his neck, pulling off a clump of dog hair and plopping into the nearest seat. 

“He fell asleep in a graveyard,” Dayton said, taking the seat next to Alexander, who shot him a look. Reeve raised his eyebrows.

“That’s...well...unique,” Reeve replied kindly. 

“It’s the only place I can study without interruptions,” Alexander turned and stared pointedly at Dayton.

“Interruptions!” Dayton defended himself. He pointed a finger to Alexander, “He was awake at three in the morning making a racket. He’s the one interrupting me.”

Reeve chuckled, “Is that true, Alexander? Were you so excited to begin today’s lesson that you woke everyone up before dawn? How studious.”

Alexander rolled his eyes, pulling a journal from his bag. 

“Do you think Mr. Livingston will let us keep a dog?”

Reeve looked at Dayton, “You will have to ask him that, he’s in charge here. Not me. Now. If we don’t have any more questions or stories I would like to begin.”

The tutor clasped his hands together and walked back to his desk, pulling out a small pamphlet, and raising it. 

“Do you both have the reading?”

“Bankcroft, right?” Alexander cut in, fishing around in his papers, yes, I think I have it--”

“--The dog didn’t take it?” Dayton teased. 

“That is the one, Alexander. _Remarks on the Review of the Controversy between Great Britain and her Colonies._ I take it you both read the thing in its entirety?”

Alexander replied first, again, “Yes. Absolutely. I found it to be extremely thorough.” He adjusted in his seat. Dayton stared at him sardonically. “I thought his arguments were solid.”

Reeve nodded, then looked at Dayton, “What did you think, Jonathan?”

“Hmm...the same.”

“Ah, not good enough. Come up with your own thoughts, please.”

Dayton thought for a second, “Fine. I suppose...well...he’s rather extreme. With regards to splitting from England. I think there must be a safer course, before resorting to that.”

Alexander turned to the younger student and scoffed, “That’s not what he was saying at _all_. He was submitting his thoughts to the British legislature, for their consideration. It wasn’t extreme. If it was he wouldn’t have written it for them for fear of retribution.”

Dayton rolled his eyes.

“Go on, Alexander,” Reeve lifted a hand, conceding the floor.

“He was writing about a potential proposal for _solving_ the present dispute with the colonies-- us; He doesn’t want to split, per se.” Alexander moved around in his seat, thinking, “It wouldn’t benefit anyone without taking into consideration other factors such as commerce, currency--”

“-- The boring bits,” Dayton muttered slouching. Reeves looked at him

“It may be boring, to you, Jonathan, but it is necessary. The details must be worked out before the larger picture is,” the tutor explained kindly. 

“Independence must be established on a just and _permanent_ basis,” Alexander recited the memorized lines. 

“And what do you think he meant by that, Alexander, in regards to the current laws? Is there a way to marry the two? English common law and independence from Britain?”

Alexander frowned and quickly flipped through his loose notes, looking for the answer. Dayton looked at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised. 

The trio was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. The students turned, and a pretty woman in her early twenties stood with a small smile in the doorway. She had thick, dark brown hair piled prettily on her head, loose curls framing her face and large black eyes. Alexander watched her; dropped his quill. 

“Sally, what a pleasant surprise,” Reeve walked over to his wife, kissing her on both cheeks.

“Hello boys, hello Tap. I hope I’m not interrupting anyone,” she clasped her hands nervously. Reeve shook his head, no. 

“These are my students,” he raised a hand, “The taller boy there is Jonathan Dayton, fourteen. Next to him is Alexander Hamilton, eighteen.”

Sally studied him, “I’ve heard the name.”

Reeve put a hand to his head, making the connection, “Of course. How could I forget, your brother--Alexander, this is Sally Burr Reeve. You know Aaron?”

Alexander bent down and picked up his quill, realizing the nub had been broken. He popped back up, red-faced, “Yes. We met once.”

“Is everything okay?” Reeve asked his wife. She sighed. 

“I have just been to see Mrs. Boudinot.”

Alexander and Dayton looked at each other. 

Sally dropped her voice, “Please promise me you’ll keep it a secret. Her child is ill again, and the doctors don’t think he will last the summer. They have been to see every doctor in the county, it seems like, and the child doesn’t improve.”

Reeve sighed, “No, I won’t say anything. I take it Elias is taking a leave of absence?”

Sally nodded, “That is what Mrs. Boudinot told me. She hasn’t the energy to come here and tell Mr. Livingston. She was hoping I could relay the dreadful news to you.”

“Of course, of course,” Reeve said quietly. He pulled his wife in for a kiss. “Thank you for letting me know, my dear.” 

Alexander looked away. He stared at the notes on desk, listening to Reeve walk his wife back to the door


	12. Rejection

Aaron read the letter aloud to Jon, who lay sprawled in his bed, book open on his bare chest. A fire roared in the corner of the small room. He made a face.

_“Whether you study law with Mr. Reeve or your uncle Pierpont is a matter of indifference with me. I would have you act your pleasure therein. I shall write to your uncle upon it, but yet treat it as a matter of doubt. Your board I shall settle with Dr. Bellamy myself. I will send you cash to pay for your horse very soon. You may expect it in the forepart of March. If I had known of this want of yours sooner, I would have paid it before this.”_

“Friendly,” he replied wryly. “Your uncle has really outdone himself this time. A true charmer.”

Aaron crumpled the letter in his hand. There was no emotion in the words, but he could see his uncle’s countenance darkening as he wrote them. To an outsider, this letter was frank and mundane, but Aaron knew the implications.

_Just take the damned money and be done with it--you have made it plain you despise this family._

“He will never forgive me for abandoning religion,” Aaron turned to look at his friend, a wry smile on his face. Jon took the book off his chest and placed it on the nightstand beside him and sat up. He patted the mattress next to him and motioned for Aaron to come closer.

“I don’t know why I bothered writing to him in the first place. As if he gives a damn about my life. I’m sure he’d rather see me dead.”

Aaron positioned himself on the bed and laid his head back on the headboard.

“As if he’d approve of you staying in this boarding house with me for one minute more if he knew all that went on.” Jon placed a hand on his roommate’s, and Aaron laughed. 

He _was_ breaking free, very slowly, but surely. _This country holds such promise -- for those willing to try for it_

“You will still write to me after I leave this place,” Aaron said. It was not a request, but a command. He sat up straight and turned to face his friend.

“You know I will. It is I who worry about _you,”_ Jon replied. “If I don’t hear from you for weeks at a time I will have no choice but to believe the worst.”

“You should be honored to have had me as a friend.”

Jon returned the smile, “That I’ve had you at all.”

Aaron’s smile faded only slightly, and a howling wind smacked bare tree branches against the cold glass windows. He felt time closing in on him like a cage. 

Jon flatted the sheets near him, speaking maturely, “Well. I think you’d be quite good at the law. But you know what dear old Timothy thinks of breaking ranks.”

“To hell with Timothy,” Aaron turned around and took account of the room, wondering how long it would take him to pack. “I have been wanting to begin studying for many weeks. This self-congratulatory nonsense means nothing to me. Tell Timothy he can keep his money. When I am done with school and practicing law I will have him jailed.”

He gestured to a Bible, feeling himself on a roll. Jon watched him, bemused.

“The road to heaven is open to all alike, soldiers and laymen both, despite what dear old Tim thinks.”

“No wonder he’s stopped giving you money,” Jon remarked, “I’ve turned you into a zealot.”

It was moderately true, thought Aaron, that the more he studied the ancient holy scripts, the more he disbelieved them. The more he’d realized the legacy of his Grandfather was one built on fear, not knowledge, and Aaron had decided, stealing a glance at the other boy, he’d build his life on the latter.

Jon cleared his throat, and adjusted himself on the bed, laughing “What about Matt?”

“Ah--” Aaron spun, looking for a calendar, “How many weeks do I have left?”

“Three,” Jon said, biting a nail and smiling. “Not sure how you’re going to pay him his fifty shillings if Uncle Tim is going to abandon you penniless on the streets.”

After a beat of silence, Jon interrupted him again, “When are you travelling back to New Jersey to settle things with him?”

“This weekend, I think. Would you like to come with me?” Aaron asked. “I will have to speak to my sister and brother in law, too.”

Jon shrugged, “If you’re not here, what am I supposed to do?”

Aaron walked over to him, “That settles it. I’ll show you where I went to school and introduce you to Matt. Maybe you can convince him to take pity on a broke transient like myself.”

His future took shape in the front of his mind.

Aaron made his way to the window, the only sound the rustle of pages as Jon turned through his book. His roommate’s laughter ebbed away into quiet chuckles, and Aaron watched as a flock of migrant geese made their way across the sky.

 _You will do it, though, to please your family?_

Behind him, Jon mentioned something about getting dinner. Aaron nodded in his direction, then turned his attention back to the window, leaning his forehead against the ice-cold glass. He felt the ever-present, dull headache of someone who’d studied too much and slept too little creep into his temples. The door to the bedroom creaked, then shut, and Aaron was alone.

****

Saturday was frigid and bright when Alexander followed Henry and Dayton down the front steps and onto the road, making their way to the town center. They told him they’d be meeting some other boys at the tavern; Alexander fretted, didn’t know how to approach the situation. 

Elizabethtown was small but teeming with people. A row of merchants’ booths lined their right side, and to the left, the brown river, filled with small boats and the shouts of sailors. A seagull screeched right above Hamilton’s head, and he swore.

“Yeah, they do that from time to time,” Dayton said, “Over the summer it’s worse. Had one swipe a biscuit right out of my hand.”

“I didn’t think they came this far inland,” Henry interjected, swatting at a smaller bird, who dived at him. 

“I hate birds. I really do. Especially sea gulls,” Alexander said. He looked around him at the various people and their wares, already accepting the fact that he couldn’t afford any of it. He chewed his lip in thought, turned over scenarios in his head:

_If they offer to buy you lunch, will you take it? Or will you eat your pride?_

A man to his right cut into his thoughts, shoving a small rug in his face. Alexander politely declined. 

“Who will be meeting us?” Alexander inquired politely. The other two boys didn’t seem to hear him.

Ahead, the tavern loomed. They hadn’t worked out who would be paying what, and it ate away at Alexander all morning. He scrounged for some coils that had fallen into the bottom of his bag, and several more he came across in the kitchen behind a pile of dirty rags. They seemed forgotten, and he promised himself that if anyone came looking for them, he would return them immediately. But for now--

“They make the best pies here,” Henry said, leading them into the darkened tavern. 

“It smells like a barn,” Dayton responded, making a face. 

Alexander was the last one in, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. He covertly ran a finger across the window sill, and grimaced as it left a black mark on him. He watched as Henry waved to a group of boys at a table in the corner. Alexander looked at them, vaguely recognizing faces from some of the students he’d seen wandering around near the college. 

“Glad you could make it,” one of the boys stood up, shook Henry’s hand, and patted him on the back.

“Wouldn’t miss it, not after what happened last time,” Henry replied, grinning. 

“What happened last time?” A third boy asked.

Hamilton looked at the faces at the table, recognizing Burr, and quickly dropping his gaze. 

The third boy, pudgy and open-faced, looked at Henry. 

“The pig farmer Nicolas, just down the road, has a grudge against Thompson-- that’s the bar keep. Last week he let his pigs loose in the tavern as payback for Thompson not paying a debt, or something of the sort,” Henry offered, “My father told me the whole story. Rather boring, something about bonds, but that part made me curious to see this place.”

“Oh my!” The third boy replied. 

Dayton cut in, “May I?” He pulled out a chair, and sat. Hamilton followed suit 

Next to Burr was a taller boy who rolled his eyes and covered his face at the pig story, and the third boy, who introduced himself as Robert Troup. 

“Not the stupid pig story again, Bobby.”

“There has to be a better way to resolve debts than letting livestock run amok,” Troup said, shaking his head. 

Henry stood up, “I am going to grab us all drinks. And see what sorts of pastries they’ve made today. Are any of you hungry?”

Alexander’s stomach growled as the other boys nodded in assent. He waited, deliberated internally. 

“No, I am just going to have water,” Hamilton offered what he hoped was a sincere smile. He felt Burr’s gaze to his left. 

“Really? It is nearly dinner. Are you sure you don’t want something?” Burr asked. 

Suddenly, the entire table looked at him, and Alexander felt his face grow hot, “No. I am fine. I am-- I brought-- er…” He reached into his pocket awkwardly, trying for another sheepish smile. He felt Aaron’s hand on his arm. 

“Henry-- I’ll get Alexander’s. Bring him whatever the chef’s cooked up. And the same for myself.”

On Aaron’s opposite side, the taller boy rolled his again, “There you go, just throwing money around. Fifty shillings richer and spending it all at once.”

Burr slapped his cousin on the arm, “Matt-- shut up or I’ll tell everyone how last week you lost a fight to a crab.”

“I’d like to try the peach pie, if they’ve got any,” Troup cut in hopefully. 

“Bread and cheese,” Dayton said fiddling with a spot on his vest. He looked at Matt, “I want to hear the story about the crab.”

Hamilton studied the wood grain of the table while the boys around him.

Their din faded into the back of his mind, as he let the uncomfortable embarrassment settle on his shoulders. He turned and watched Henry make conversation with a pretty barmaid-- compliment the color of her dress, slip her a coin and smile-- and he turned back around. His lips stung.

“May I have a sip of that water?” He indicated to a glass in front of Burr, who handed it to him. 

“I’m Matt Ogden, by the way. Apologies for not introducing myself earlier,” the taller boy reached in front Aaron’s face and shook Alexander’s hand. “I’m Burr’s cousin.”

“Step-cousin,” Aaron interjected quietly. 

“His maternal uncle married my mother. There’s no blood between us.” Matt added. 

“So wouldn’t that make you…” Troup looked up in confusion, “...Why aren’t you an Edwards, then?”

“Didn’t take the last name. My mother goes by Ogden-Edwards, but she’s stubborn as a mule,” Matt answered. “None of my siblings wanted to be bothered with the name change so we kept my father’s.”

Alexander stole a sidelong glance at Aaron, who looked bored. He thought about his sister, wondering if it would be at all appropriate to bring up that he knew her. 

“Oh, I see. I suppose the name doesn’t really matter. Just curious,” Troup answered. 

“I’m going to see what’s taking Henry so long,” Dayton interrupted, standing. 

“My mother didn’t want to be an Edwards,” Matt said, grinning. “Said it’s too much responsibility to be an Edwards.”

“No self-respecting Edwards would turn a simple crabbing trip into a bloody mess,” Burr cut in. “Matt, show them your calf. Everyone, look at this--”

Hamilton took inventory of the table, feeling at once both content and uncomfortable, and wondered if Burr was the type to complain about unpaid debts. He was shaken from his thoughts as Matt stood up and pulled down his stocking. Alexander started at the four-inch gash, alarmed. 

“Jesus-- a _crab_ did that to you?”

Burr interrupted, smugly, “No. He had an accident on the boat. He got cocky and sliced his leg with a crabbing knife and then had to sew it up himself.”

Matt pushed back, “Well at least I didn’t spend six months in seminary school with that creep Bellamy for fifty shillings.”

Hamilton watched Burr turn pink, raising a finger to respond, marveling at how quickly the conversation between the cousins turned disquieting. 

In the next second, Henry appeared with a few plates, and beckoned for the barkeep to bring the rest. Hamilton eyed the food hungrily, the smells filling his nose and making his stomach growl even louder. It wasn’t as if the Livingstons didn’t feed him-- but lately his appetite had become ravenous. 

“You must be growing, boy!” Mr Livingston remarked one day, hopefully. It wasn’t the case, Alexander concluded sadly. He’d always be small. Burr interjected his thoughts. 

“What on earth is _this?_ ” He grabbed two identical plates, and put one in front of Alexander.

“You said you wanted whatever the chef had cooked up. That’s what he cooked up,” Henry made a face. “It’s liver.”

“From _what animal?_ ” Aaron retorted, sticking a fork into the greyish meat. 

“Human,” Alexander offered. He relaxed into his seat. “This is where they take orphans.”

Burr let out a bark of laughter, his silverware hitting the plate with a loud clatter. Across from him, Troup coughed loudly into his drink. Matt shot him an alarmed look.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Dayton muttered. 

“They don’t serve human here, for God’s sake, Alexander,” Henry jumped in, defensively. 

Alexander looked at Aaron who still grinned. 

“But do you know for sure? I knew an old witch on Nevis who swore she’d catch me and carve up my flesh for a meat pie if she ever caught me trampling her garden,” Hamilton responded, enjoying how pale the rest of the table had gone. 

“Orphan flesh is said to have healing powers,” Burr cut in. 

“Can you stop? I’m going to be sick,” Dayton interjected. 

Troup looked at the two boys across from him, a small smile creeping across his features, “Oh?”

Matt lifted his own fork, “Don’t get him started, _please_ , we’ll be here all night listening to witch fables--”

“--Is that what they taught you at the university, then?” Troup replied, smiling deviously, “Witch fables and cannibalism?” 

“Afraid you’re missing out?” Burr retorted, laughing.

“Not at all. I am happy with King’s college. Though I know you think it’s somehow a lesser school, at least we learn _real_ subjects.”

“God, this old argument,” Matt muttered under his breath. 

Alexander took account of everyone at the table again, feeling buoyed. Dayton chewed thoughtfully on his meal, watching Henry explain something about his ale. He glanced at Aaron again, in animated conversation with Troup while Matt looked on with a tired grin. 

“It’s not stifling, you can still express your _opinion--”_ Troup said.

“--As long as it’s Tory.” Matt cut in. “I know what I know. You can’t lie to me.”

Aaron nodded, “What about the student who got expelled last month for daring to disparage the king?”

“He _what?_ ” Alexander perked up, pushing his fork around the gravy on his plate. He watched as Troup shook his head. 

“Burr is wrong. The student was expelled for refusing to go to class. Nothing more.”

Aaron snorted, “That’s what they tell you.”

“King’s is a perfectly respectable school if you keep your head down and do the work. It’s no wonder you find it reprehensible,” Troup replied. “I know you, Burr. I hear the stories.”

Matt laughed, and Aaron made a face. Alexander smiled into his drink.

“What stories are those?” He asked. 

“That he wandered the campus at all hours, refused to do any work, invited girls into his dorm, was a general nuisance,” Troup looked over at Hamilton, then Burr. “And then ran off to the seminary in hopes of rectifying it. My cousin is still expecting you to write her, you know.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Aaron replied, stifling a laugh. 

Hamilton chuckled, “I’d like to hear _that_ story.”

“The one about the Tories or Troup’s spinster cousin?” Burr replied, looking at him. 

“She is nineteen, I would hardly call that a spinster, Aaron,” Troup cut in, somewhat defensively. 

“Fine, then, I want to hear about the Tories,” Alexander offered, looking at Troup. The latter boy sighed, and put his fork and knife down. 

“I promise you, King’s is a _fine_ school. It’s just...a bit...er… conservative. They have a bit of a bad habit trying to hide the students from the more...revolutionary writings. The pamphlets still find their way into the dorms, of course, but there was an incident a few months ago where a student challenged a professor and was expelled. But it was a long time coming, trust me,” Troup concluded, looking back down into his plate of pie.

Alexander felt Aaron’s gaze. Burr caught his eye, mouthed _No, it wasn’t,_ and broke eye-contact as Troup looked back up. 

“And in any case, there’s no telling what Congress will decide, and there’s no use for us discussing it. It’s not like we have a say.”

“Oh I don’t believe that at all,” Hamilton found himself saying. “Who is more poised to make the call than the young men who have the vitality and courage to enforce it? Certainly not Congress. Mulligan called them tired old windbags.”

Burr looked over at him, chewing thoughtfully. 

“Did you say Mulligan? Hercules Mulligan?” Troup replied. “I heard he’s a real firebrand.”

“He is! I stayed with him for a few months when I first came to New York. I think he is one of the most inspired men I’ve met here.”

“You’d better not let him know you’re sitting with this Tory, then,” Burr leaned in, nodded in Troup's direction. “Come to Princeton, Mulligan would be more pleased than if you wound up with that lot.”

Hamilton smiled again, “Should I ask for you?”

“Actually, _yes_ ,” Burr replied. 

“For Christ’s sake, no, you’ll get thrown out by your collar, if they knew you associated with him,” Matt interjected. “Ask for Witherspoon, the president.”

Aaron closed his eyes and laughed. He turned his head, facing Alexander, “Fine. Do not mention me. Matt is right. Witherspoon is in his office from five o’clock in the evening until nine o’clock-- I swear on it. But he is strict about pupils disturbing him, so do not be dissuaded if he has a bit of an attitude.”

Hamilton looked at him for a moment, hope swelling in his chest.

“You’d better hope you see him on a good day, then,” Matt cut in, swallowing a piece of bread. 

Troup shook his head, “I don’t know. I would think the more revolutionary-minded students who attend King’s, the more likely they are to change their minds. We need _numbers_.”

“What are you going to do, gang-rush the front office? Start hurling little balls of paper like canons?” Burr replied, laughing still. “Please, tell me when this scene is to occur so I may come watch. I could do with a laugh.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Alexander asked. 

Aaron’s smile faded, and he and Matt traded a look. 

“Nothing. Just my own academic struggles. Nothing like Troup’s little patriot war here, though.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Connecticut?” Henry cut in, speaking with his mouth full. “Reeve mentioned it a few weeks ago. Said you’d given up the religious studies. How’s Sarah taking it?”

“Who is Sarah?” Alexander asked. 

“My older sister,” Aaron replied. “You probably know her as Sally.”

Hamilton sat back in his seat, “Ah, yes. I’ve met her. Petite with the black eyes and brown curls.”

Burr dropped his fork and looked at him, eyebrows raised, “‘Petite? Brown curls?”

Troup stifled a laugh into his drink. 

“What? What did I say--?” Alexander turned red, “She was-- I saw her--”

“She’s pretty. She’s always at the school visiting Reeve,” Henry interjected with a mouth full. He looked at Alexander, “Don’t think you’re the first to notice, Hamilton.”

“That is my _sister_ ,” Aaron leaned forward.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just describing her... physically,” Alexander sputtered, gesticulating. 

Burr closed his eyes and went on, “ _Anyway_...Reeve is blowing things completely out of proportion, just to upset her. I will be fine. I will be doing nothing but pouring over the blasted Bible from morning until midnight with no time for trouble. I’ve told her this one thousand times.”

Hamilton swallowed a gulp of water. It was Troup's turn to interrupt. 

“So you’re to study law now? Are you not excited to change subjects?”

“Would _you_ be?” Alexander interjected before he could stop himself. He shook “Hours upon hours of Bible verses traded for dull legal tomes. Everyone knows the only interesting chapters are Genesis and Revelation.”

“I should have focused on those,” Aaron replied, smiling at him. “Little Hamilton here knows my aversion to this life of piety to which I seem predestined.”

Matt barked another short laugh, shaking his head.

Troup smiled wryly, “Seems your time at the College didn’t do you any good, then, seeing as you’ll have no opportunities to join the patriot cause, other than praying for them.”

****

The room was stuffy and dark, and Alexander regretted wearing a heavy coat. He fidgeted in his seat, unsure whether to discard it and leave it hanging off the back of the chair and risk looking sloppy, or sweat and suffer. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how hot it got on the island, and how used to it he’d gotten.  _ Surely your blood hasn’t thickened so much in one single year? _

Alexander tried to imagine how the meeting would go. Matt and Aaron had made Witherspoon out to be some old troll-- cruel and petty just for the fun of it. Surely not. 

_ He is strict about pupils disturbing him-- _ so Alexander made sure he’d made an appointment beforehand.

“Alexander Hamilton?”

He looked up. A young, clean-shaven man only several years older than him stuck his head in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“They are ready for you, just inside that door to your left.”

Alexander nodded and gave him what he hoped was a pleasant, confident smile, and stood. The young man disappeared without a second look, and his nerves kicked in.

He opened the door, and saw the old man sitting behind his desk, engrossed in a letter. 

“Sit, please, I will be with you in a moment,” he said, dipping his quill into the inkwell and scribbling something. 

Alexander shut the door behind him, and stepped forward.

Several unbearably silent seconds passed, and Alexander watched the old man, thoughts spinning. 

_ Is it not yet five? Am I early? _

Alexander’s eyes flicked over at a clock on the mantle of a small fireplace. 

_ Five-oh-four. _

Another several seconds passed, and Alexander swallowed, shifted his weight. His hands grew clammy. 

“I can come back later, sir, if you are busy,” Alexander spoke, words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. 

The old man’s gaze darted up, and the teenager immediately regretted saying anything. He stepped forward. 

“I am sorry. Of course you are busy. I can wait.”

WItherspoon sighed, raised a hand to a chair, ‘Just sit, for God’s sake.”

“Finish your letter, sir, honestly.”

“Mr. Hamilton…”

“You’re right-- I’m sorry,” Alexander blushed and sat down. “I do not want to waste your time.”

Witherspoon gathered the papers and set them to the side, clearing his throat. Then, “You are interested in attending the College soon, is that correct?”

“Yes. The sooner the better.” Alexander scooted forward on his seat. “I am already a year or so behind, I fear, so the faster I can begin my coursework, the faster I can catch up with my peers. I am certain you heard about my educational history, spotty as it was. I tried my best--” he reached into his bag, and pulled out a stack of papers, “--Some essays, and letters from tutors, if you’d like to see them--”

Wither spoon held up his hand, “--That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hamilton, thank you.”

Alexander shrank slightly, “Oh, sorry. Of course.”

“I have some letters of recommendation here, already,” the older man reached behind him and opened a small, thin book, producing said papers, “Glowing reviews, all of them. You have an affinity for medicine?”

Alexander smiled nervously, “Yes. I have a dear friend who is at the medical college in Edinburgh for the rest of the year, and he--”

“--King’s might be a better place for that sort of study,” Witherspoon said, off-handedly, looking down at his notes. 

Alexander felt a dip in his stomach, “Well--I am certain the College of New Jersey has plenty to offer me in any subject. Perhaps a dual major?”

“Two courses of study at once? Just how light do you think the coursework is here?” WItherspoon’s eyes darted up again. 

“Sir,” the teenager’s shoulders slumped, “I didn’t mean to suggest it would be easy. I’ve been in contact with Reverend Knox, among others, and my funds-- that is, the money raised for me-- from the island--they’re expecting me to attend this College--”

“--So you are here because someone told you to come? Not because you want to be?” The older man scanned him. 

Alexander began to sweat, and removed his coat, hands shaking. His mouth went dry, “I fear I am not making myself understood very well. I apologize, sir, I have not been sleeping very well.”

“Take a deep breath, boy, and start again.”

“Yes.” Alexander inhaled, and exhaled. He looked up, “I am here to fulfil a dream of attending the College of New Jersey. It is my dream, first, and my friends and family’s, second. I have spent most of the last year studying and preparing for this, and I desperately hope you will give me that opportunity, sir, to prove myself.”

Witherspoon scanned him, “You are still at the Academy, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are too many distractions in Elizabethtown,” the older many replied cryptically. “I know how Livingston runs his house. Too many blasted children to keep a close eye on all of them. How much studying are you able to get in?”

“At least twelve hours a day, sir.”

The older man let out a short, unfriendly laugh, “How is that possible?”

“I wake at three am and head to a quiet place like a park or a graveyard.”

Witherspoon’s laughter deepened. Realizing the teenager was serious, his smile faded after a beat, “A graveyard? Well. I can at least see you’re dedicated.”

“I am,” Alexander leaned forward again, pressing his point, “And I am prepared to take on extra work so that I may advance quickly, from class to class, to catch up with my peers.”

Another few seconds of silence descended into the room. Alexander was almost certain the older man could see his heart beating out of his chest. _ Too much. You’re asking too much. Presumptuous, pushy, stupid-- _

“You do have an aptitude for words,” Witherspoon muttered, slipping out from the stack a thick pile of essays. He thumbed through one of them, “How long did it take you to write this?”

“Sixteen hours.”

“Straight through?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another short, dry laugh, and Alexander couldn't tell if the old man was impressed, or exasperated. The teenager spoke again, “Once I get something into my head, I have to get it out, all at once. Then I go back and edit.”

Witherspoon raised an eyebrow and looked at him, “The original was longer?”

Alexander nodded silently.

“A good writer says more with less, you should know that, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Another lesson I am excited to learn at the College,” Alexander tried for levity. 

Witherspoon was unmoved, “I will discuss your application with the other professors here, and send you a letter in the coming weeks with my recommendations.”

“Sir,” Alexander felt light, “Thank you. All I ask is for a chance.”

“I have not made my decision yet, Mr. Hamilton.”

“No, of course. You need time to think. I understand.” Alexander adjusted in his seat. He studied the older man for signs of friendliness; Witherspoon’s face remained blank. The old man flipped through the pages silently. Alexander went on, “I would be more than happy to be accepted at any level you see fit, provided I can advance at my own pace. I’ve been looking into it, and I read that this is a viable option for certain students with...unconventional backgrounds.”

Witherspoon grunted, noncommittal. Then, “We shall see.”

“Yes. Of course, sir.”

****

Alexander woke up the next few mornings feeling enlivened. 

“I knew you’d make friends easy,” Livingston caught him at the front door one day, on his way out. The older man was carrying a handful of books towards the back of the house.

“Do you need help with those, sir?” Alexander asked, wrapping his scarf around his neck. 

“You look like you’re on your way out! I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Nonsense,” Alexander smiled, and took some of them.

“It really does warm my heart to see you getting so acquainted with the area,” Livingston went on, leading him back through the house, “The youth should stick together in times like these.”

“Sir?”

The older man kicked the door to the library open with a grunt, “What I mean to say is, I have it on very good authority that times are about to get a bit tougher, if you catch my drift. Those of you with the energy to withstand the turning of the tides will be at an advantage.”

Alexander waited until he deposited his stack on a nearby shelf, and then mimicked him. Livingston exhaled.

“Heavier than they seemed, those were.”

Alexander touched one of the books-- a thick, dusty tome about apothecaries, “I’ve read this one.”

“Ah-- yes. I’d figured. All nonsense to me, I’m afraid. But, I suppose we’ll need doctors more than professors if the British army advances any further,” Livingston laughed. 

Alexander looked at him, somewhat alarmed. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You seem to be in dark spirits today, sir,” Alexander tried. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The older man’s expression softened, “Of course. I shouldn’t read the papers so much. Just sets my nerves on edge. I didn’t mean to frighten you-- go on and join your friends for the day.”

Alexander nodded, “No, you’re right. It’s no use to try and bury your head in the sand.”

“I think you can one afternoon off,” Livingston replied, grinning. “Where are you off to?”

“The coffee house. Morrison’s,” Alexander straightened his shirt. 

Livingston responded, “Good. Glad to hear you all won’t be pestering poor Mr. Hyer for once. I ran into him in the street last week and he told me you were insulting his food.”

“It was-- we were just joking--”

Livingston laughed again, “Fear not, Alexander. It’s inedible, most days. But you didn’t hear it from me. Go enjoy yourself at the coffee house.”

Alexander gave him a small smile, and as he turned, Livingston tapped him. 

“Here. On me,” the older man said, handing him some change. “Don’t tell Henry, he’ll die of jealousy.”

Alexander blushed, “You don’t have to. I was just going to get water.”

“Nonsense. I insist.”

The teenager’s smile grew wider, and he took the money, thanking Livingston with a small nod. Alexander exited the library, made his way back through the house, and into the open air, a new spring in his step. 

He wondered who’d be there to meet him. Henry, almost certainly. Some of the other boys from the area, perhaps. He came upon the small town and his attention turned to the barking of a large dog, tied up at a post outside the coffee house. 

Alexander closed his eyes, sighing, “Dayton.”

He reached the front door and swung it open, immediately hit with the warm, inviting smell. He craned his neck around to see where Dayton might be. 

“Tea, sir?” A barmaid called out to him. 

Alexander walked up to the counter, putting the coins on it, “Whatever this will get me, please.”

She eyed it, and grabbed it, and disappeared. 

“Alexander! Over here,” Dayton called from a window in the back of the room, obscured by a booth. Alexander turned his head to see his fellow student waving dramatically, drawing attention to himself.

The barmaid reappeared with a small cup and saucer, eyeing the scene dryly, “Your friend is embarrassing you.”

Alexander chuckled, accepting the drink and thanking her. She reached behind the counter, and handed him a scone. 

“For your troubles,” she smiled at him, “On the house.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Alexander smiled at her. 

She blushed, “I insist.”

Alexander accepted it, giving her a tiny bow. He turned and made his way to the booth, weaving between the close tables and groups of different men talking animatedly amongst themselves. As he came upon the table, his smile grew wider, recognizing Aaron.

“Hi Alexander. Aaron and I were just discussing--”

“--Jonathan, don’t,” Aaron cut him off, making a movement with his hand.

Alexander slid into a seat, looking from boy to boy, “Discussing what?”

“Whether or not the barmaid would flirt with you,” Dayton answered. “I said you were too ugly.”

Aaron fell back in his seat. Alexander looked at them again, mouth hanging open.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t either of you have anything better to do?”

 _“You’re_ here,” Aaron opened his eyes again.

Alexander produced the scone smugly, “She gave me this for free. So, shut up, Dayton.”

“She probably thinks you’re homeless,” Dayton shot back. 

“I am homeless,” Alexander replied with his mouthful, spitting crumbs. 

Aaron laughed into his coffee, taking a sip. He swallowed, then, “Where’s Henry?”

“Visiting his sister,” Alexander responded. “Where’s Matt?”

“With some friends in the local militia, in Connecticut,” Aaron tore at a napkin. “I’m just killing time before I have to be back in Litchfield. The coach leaves this evening around seven. I was just telling Dayton how _deliriously happy_ I am to be heading back for another several months’ worth of legal studies.”

“You sound sarcastic,” Alexander muttered.

“He is,” Dayton jumped in. 

“Why’s that?” 

Dayton answered, “Because it’s _boring.”_

Hamilton swallowed another bite, “Will you let _him_ talk, please? Jesus.”

“No, he’s right,” Burr laughed softly, “I was just saying how pointless it all is. Shoving your nose into a book when there are people actually out there-- “ he nodded toward the window, “fighting and making a difference. Seems stupid to me.”

“Well we all start somewhere,” Hamilton countered. 

“There you all are,” a fourth boy appeared at the table, Troup, red-faced and struggling with his bag. Hamilton stood and took it from him, inviting him to sit. Troup obliged, happily, exhaling, “Wandered all over this stupid town asking if anyone had seen a gangly boy with a dog. People were starting to think I was an insane person.”

“Starting…?” Aaron grinned at him, and Troup responded with a kick.

Alexander sat back down, the feeling of lightness from earlier that morning flooding through him. He took a brief look around the table, bounced his knee beneath it, “We should make this the official meeting spot, for us, if ever we want to get together.”

Troup nodded, “At least for now.”

“Precisely. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to freely travel from New Jersey to Connecticut. Last time the coach was stopped by some soldiers and we were derailed for an entire day. Idiotic,” Burr added. 

“What for?” Dayton cut in.

“No earthly idea. Something to do with the driver not paying tolls on the road. I swear they make the rules up on the spot.”

“They do,” Hamilton said. “That was one of the first things Mulligan told me. They can get away with it since we’re so far from Britain. No accountability, in most cases. No one pays attention to the backwaters.”

“We’re not a backwater,” Troup frowned, “...Are we?”

Alexander picked a crumb up from his plate and popped it into his mouth, “Oh, the colonies are a backwater. At least to them. Trust me.”

Aaron chewed on this thought for a moment. Then, “Which is exactly why I feel it is so useless to bury myself away inside essays. Words, words, words. For what?”

“You’re awfully sour today,” Alexander turned to him. 

“He’s jealous,” Dayton replied, matter-of-factly. 

Burr shot him a look, “I told you that in confidence.”

Hamilton interjected, “Well, he’ll be jealous of you when you’ve got a solid, prosperous career and he’s… what was the story with his scar? Fooling around with crabs.”

The others at the table laughed; Alexander smiled. 

“I guess. I’m trying to keep positive about it.” Aaron offered, moving around in his seat. He stared off into space for a moment, and the others grew quiet. He spoke, after a beat, “I don’t want to feel like I’m wasting any opportunities.”

The others nodded in assent. Troup responded, “I feel that way too. Almost as if I could make the wrong move at any moment and sabotage something.”

“Is that why you’ve gone from study to study?” Hamilton asked. He hadn’t meant to sound accusatory, but the way Burr’s gaze darted up at the words told him he did.

Dayton interrupted, seemingly unaware, “I think we’ll all be fine. I don’t see this getting too out of hand. The British will have to listen to us _eventually_ , I mean, how many times can they just ignore it all?”

“I’m telling you, they don’t care,” Alexander insisted. “Have any of you ever seen someone get tarred and feathered?”

Dayton pursed his lips. Troup answered for him, “No, and I never want to.”

“Most of the time, the soldiers instigate it,” Alexander looked at each teenager in turn, landing on Troup, “They love to see the violence. If we all tear at each other’s throats, and are too busy brawling in the streets to organize, it works to their benefit.”

“What...happened, exactly?” Troup’s eyebrows furrowed, and he scooted forward on his seat. “I hear the stories about Boston, but I’ve never been. Is it as bad as they say?”

Hamilton nodded, holding the table at attention, “Worse, in some cases.”

“How much could you have seen in one week?” Burr spoke, low. 

“Enough,” Alexander answered quickly. 

“I hear they strip you naked,” Dayton cut in, darkly. 

“The more tar that touches your flesh, the more painful it is. And that’s the entire point,” Alexander continued. “Then they parade you through the streets, to let people heckle you. Most die from the injuries, because they’re so severe. But it’s not quick. I read a case about a man who lingered for two days, until the tar dripped down his nose and throat, and he couldn’t breathe, and it choked the life out of him.”

Troup grimaced, “Christ.”

Hamilton touched his neck, “The nose and throat passageways are connected. If one gets blocked, the other will. The skin, also, is quite a thin membrane. The heat from the tar burns right through it, sometimes to the bone--”

“--Thanks, Alexander, I’ve completely lost my appetite,” Dayton fell back into his seat, tossing his napkin onto his plate. 

Burr watched him, expression inscrutable. Hamilton went on, leaning over and digging into his bag.

“I have some very fine illustrations, just here in this text book--”

“--That won’t be necessary,” Troup held up a hand, “Thank you.”

“I’d like to see,” Aaron said. 

Alexander flipped to a page, holding it out to him, watching as the other boy’s expression stayed solid, almost bored. 

Burr blinked, “Looks painful.”

Hamilton slammed the book in his face, causing him to jump, “It is.”

“I’d kill myself before it could kill me,” Aaron stared at him. 

Troup and Dayton shifted uncomfortably. 

Alexander met his gaze, “How? You would be incapacitated. The scalding hot tar would hurt so terribly you’d be rendered unconscious. When you woke up, your limbs would be fused together.”

Aaron was undeterred, “I would demand laudanum. I would take so much it would end my suffering.”

“And if your throat were closed?” A tiny, manic smile appeared on Hamilton’s lips, “How would you manage to swallow it?”

“Pistol, then,” Burr countered, “I would blow my brains out.”

“Can we _please_ talk about something else?” Troup interrupted, cheeks pink. 

Hamilton pressed him further, “Not if your muscles had melted. You wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. Besides, would you have the force of mind to call for your gun? Would you be able to aim?”

Burr matched his tone, “How hard could it be?”

“I have read studies where the intended bullet does not go where it’s supposed to and the desolate victim who desperately wished for non-existence is left alive-but-incompetent for the rest of their days.”

Burr glared at him, the sounds of the coffee house disappearing, replaced by a high-strung buzz in his ears, “A blade. Surely my fingers would work well enough to quickly open my veins, and--”

“--God, enough,” Dayton waved his hand over the table, “Jesus, Alexander. Is this how you plan on talking to your patients?”

Alexander exhaled, blinking and settling back into his seat, “No. You’re right. I apologize.”

Aaron cleared his throat, “A good doctor doesn’t shy away from things of this nature, Dayton.”

“Thank you,” Alexander looked at him. He thought for a moment, then, “And a good reverend knows that those who die by their own hand are not welcomed into heaven.”

Burr sputtered, a laugh bubbling up inside of him. 

Troup gave them each a look, “You’re warped. Both of you. I’m changing the subject. Speaking of medical studies, Alexander, your friend Ned was asking about you the other day.”

“Oh?”

Troup produced a letter from his pocket, “He wanted me to deliver this to you. He was worried he wouldn’t get it to you before he left for Edinburgh.”

Hamilton accepted it, shoulders falling, “I thought that wasn’t until next month?”

“Well, with all that’s going on, the professors decided to expedite his studies, in the event the fighting gets more intense and prolonged.”

Alexander opened the letter, eyes darting across it, “I wanted to see him one last time.”

“It will only be a few years. He’ll come back,” Aaron finished the last of his drink. 

“He wanted me to tell you he’d write as soon as he landed in Scotland,” Troup added helpfully. “Should only be a few weeks’ journey. 

“Besides, if you’re already at the college in New Jersey you wouldn’t be able to see him, anyway.” Dayton yawned. “I haven’t even started and they’re already sending me coursework.”

Hamilton felt his skin warm. He looked up at the younger pupil, “You what?”

“They do that. The college,” Burr interjected. “They send letters of introduction to the new students with required reading, when you get accepted. Makes the transition a bit easier if you know what to expect before you start classes.”

“I didn’t get any letters.” Alexander folded Ned’s note and looked at the other four teenagers.

Troup replied, helpfully, “Maybe yours got lost in the mail?”

“Jonathan and I live at the same address. How would that make sense?” Alexander looked at Troup. “Wouldn’t they just send them all out at once?”

“It happens,” Aaron said. 

Alexander studied the table as the other boys continued their conversation. The lightness in his chest turned sour; a dark realization coming over him 

****

Hamilton made his way to the daily mail, checking to see if anything had come for him. In a split second, his mood was crushed. He tore at the familiar College of New Jersey insignia on the wax seal, hands shaking.

He read and re-read the rejection letter in his hand, processing it. 

He flipped it over, scanned the back for any sign of jest, stupidly, then flipped it back to the front. He paced the small living room, thankful that Henry and Dayton were not around. 

Humiliation washed over him. A copy of his original letter was included in the response. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

“Stupid-- _stupid--”_ he said to himself, balling the paper up and tossing it into the fire. He stared at the embers for a second, before thinking better of his actions, and reaching into it to retrieve the letters.

“God _dammit!”_

Hamilton spread the documents on the table nearest to him, flattening them out. He waved a hand to dispel some of the smoke, then closed his eyes, holding a scorched hand to his chest.

“What is the racket?” Livingston appeared behind him, concern on his face. “What happened to your hand, Alexander? Do you need the doctor?”

“No-- I--”

_Yes, great. Save the letter -- for what? Exactly? To show your future children how you’d made a fool of yourself in front of the most prestigious school in the country?_

“I have told you before, that fireplace is dangerous. The wood the servants use is wet and it pops. If you’ve burned yourself, there is a full rain bucket in the back that you may soak your hand in for a while, until it stops stinging.”

Embarrassed, Alexander made his way to the back of the house, his hand burning viciously.

The meeting with Witherspoon was fresh in his mind: The old man’s discontented, impatient sigh. His dry mouth and fluttering heart. His gesticulating hands, trying to explain why he should get special treatment -- That was Witherspoon’s own term. “Special treatment”. The college president spat it out like a poison. Alexander clenched his teeth, mortified. 

He couldn’t bring himself to throw the rejection letter away. The script at the top, dated one week previous, was thin and spidery. Elegant, aloof and pretentious.

_“It is with a regrettable & heavy heart that I cannot accept the Terms of your application.”_

Alexander read this line over and over, following the loops and curves of the beautiful lettering. The spots where the ink dripped, the thickness of the tails where it had gathered. It was a work of art on its own--cruel, untouchable. His vision blurred.

_No._

He dipped his hand into the cold water, cursing as the pain of the fire was traded for the pain of ice. Did he really think he was getting into the College of New Jersey-- on an accelerated track-- did he _really_ presume to ask such a thing of the most powerful university in the state and perhaps the country--

Another shudder of humiliation. Of course he had. The simpleton from the islands. He thought of Henry and Dayton, and their plans for finding roommates. He heard Aaron’s helpful voice.

_There are other schools, Alexander._

“That’s not the bloody point.”

In his mind’s eye he recalled the look of bland politeness on Burr’s face. Alexander ground his teeth. Yes, of course. He was trained to be polite and patient. He would never reveal his true feelings, listening to an uneducated bastard from a god-forsaken backwater boast stupidly about getting accepted to the College. He felt like a rambling fool.

He watched the water make ripples around his wrist, letting it cool his hand down. He pulled it out, looked at the bright pink mark where he’d been burned, and dunked it back in. 

Hamilton closed his eyes, “Just think. Relax.”

He sighed, suddenly aware that he’d been holding the paper all the way down the stairs and out to the back where the bucket was. He swatted a fly away from his face. 

“You okay?” 

Alexander’s eyes popped open to see Henry making his way around the path. He swore under his breath, shoving the letter into his pocket.

“Yes,” Alexander waved with his uninjured hand, “Yes. I’m fine. Just nursing a little wound, here.”

“What on earth happened?” Henry pulled up a stool to join him.

“Nothing. Just--” He lifted his hand from the bucket again, showed the other teenager his burn. Henry made a face. 

“Good Lord. How did you manage that?”

“I...er…” Alexander faltered, looking for a lie. “Something of mine fell into the fire, and--”

“Was it this?” Henry reached down, and to Alexander’s despair, picked up the College letter that had fallen out of his pocket in his haste to hide it. _“It is with a regrettable & heavy heart that I cannot accept--”_

In a flash Hamilton swiped the paper from Henry, who wore a look of shock on his face.

“It’s nothing, Don’t read it.”

“Okay...I was just...I mean, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.: Henry trailed off, still looking at him quizzically. He waited a moment, and then, “Was it from a girl?”

Alexander sighed again, loudly, “It was from the College of New Jersey. They declined my application. I was… I threw the letter into the fire angrily then had a change of heart.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Please don’t tell anyone. I am so humiliated,” Hamilton responded quietly, staring into the rippling water.

“No, of course not,” Henry said. Alexander felt the other boy’s eyes on him.

Sighing, “I made such an ass of myself.”

“Couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Henry--” Alexander cringed, covering his face with his uninjured hand. “I think they wanted to laugh at me. I thought they were going to have me thrown out, for my cheek.”

“Well now I have to know what happened.”

Alexander opened his eyes, “I told them that I was prepared to enter the school as a junior. They said no. _Then_ I asked if I could advance at my own pace-- you know I’m better as an independent student--”

Henry nodded along politely. 

“I remember Witherspoon grinning at me-- at first I thought he was being nice. But it was a sneer, not a smile...he told me I had no manners,” Alexander turned red and his voice dropped, “He blamed my upbringing for my ignorance. Those were his exact words.”

“Jesus…” Henry breathed. “That’s a bit harsh.”

Alexander pulled his hand out of the water, examining it. The knot tightened in his stomach and he could not bring himself to dwell on it any longer; the visceral pain of it made him wince.

“But...well. What are your plans now?”

Hamilton rubbed his eyes, “King’s I guess. I am waiting to hear from them.”

Henry offered a small smile, “Troup will be gleeful. God almighty, you’ll never be rid of him.”

“Maybe he and I are meant for the Crown after all.” Alexander replied. “Or, maybe he and I can sabotage from the inside.”

“More likely he’ll just fret at you twenty-four hours a day, making sure you turn your assignments in on time. Say goodbye to girls and parties,” Henry added. 

Alexander rolled his eyes, somewhat assuaged by his friend. He exhaled, inspecting the burn on his hand again. 

“Have you decided on the subjects you want to study?” Henry asked, chewing a hangnail. “I hear Troup’s taking some law classes. Might be beneficial to go that route. At least you’d have someone to study with.”

Alexander shook his head, “I am debating between that and medicine.”

Henry nodded again, “I don’t have the stomach for medicine. Never did like the sight of corpses.”

Alexander made more ripples in the water. He changed the subject. 

“What are you up to?”

Henry shifted his weight, “I’ve just been talking with my father. He is debating on hosting a bit of a party, before the upcoming election in the state. I don’t know. It’s probably my mother’s idea, anyway.”

Alexander perked up, “A party?”

“Yes. He has to stay popular…” Henry trailed off, bored. Alexander looked at him, waiting for more explanation. When it didn’t come, he urged the other teenager to divulge more. 

“Who is invited? Are we?”

Henry looked at him, “If you _really_ want to go, I could ask. It’s going to be nothing but politicians and statesmen and elected officials and the most boring people imaginable. I don’t recommend it, though. Really, you’ll have more fun staring at pictures of body parts in your medical books.”

“No, I think a party is exactly what I need,” Alexander said with finality. He looked around and then sighed, “Do we have any bandages?”

“No.”

Alexander exhaled loudly. Henry watched him as he removed his shoe, then stocking, wrapping his injured arm with it. 

“There.” Alexander held his work up. Henry made a face. 

“Well it’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Alexander stood and walked back into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom without a second look back.

********

Day to day, Hamilton moved from one internal crisis to another. He felt them heap themselves upon him relentlessly as soon as the reality of college settled in, and it was all he could do to keep from collapsing in on himself.

The acceptance letter from King’s College came, as he hoped it would, swiftly lifting him up from the depths of despair that he found himself in. He swung from one extreme to another.

He spent the next few days in isolation, ignoring Henry and Dayton, taking meals in his room. He chewed his lip and it bled, making him look a fright. His back hurt; his teeth hurt. He wasn’t sleeping. He felt himself descending into madness, realizing one bright spring morning that his only conversations were the medical notes he took.

He sat mutely and looked at his latest writings—several grim pages on yellow fever. 

He’d dreamt of the Beast for the past two nights and wondered if tonight would be the third. Each time, he’d woken himself up in a cold sweat. Each time, he’d convinced himself the new climate didn’t agree with him, and he reached for a thicker blanket, shooting his roommate a dark look.

“You’re going to have to go out eventually, Hamilton,” Henry called from outside the bedroom door one evening after dinner, “Now could you please unlock this blasted thing before I kick it in?”

Alexander dragged himself from the desk and pulled the door open.

“Are you alright?” Henry asked, sticking his head in and looking around the room. 

“I’m fine. Just...preparing.”

“Looks like a storm blew through here.”

“I’m really very _busy_ , Henry, so--”

“--I just wanted to let you know my father said we can attend the party.” Henry cut him off, leaning on the door frame. “He said it’s masquerade themed, so you’ll need a mask. And to not embarrass him. Though I think that message might have been more directed towards Dayton…”

Alexander let a small smile spread across his face, “That’s _wonderful_ news.”

“Thought you’d be happy to hear it,” Henry grinned. “Now, can you stop being so insufferably boring? Holed up in your bedroom all day?”

Alexander brushed past him, “Masquerade, you said?”

Henry was close behind, “Yes. You’ll need better clothes, too.”

“Yes...certainly.” Alexander chewed his lip, pausing at the top of the stairs. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t have anything nice.”

Henry crossed his arms, “There’s a tailor in town, you can just--”

“--No, I mean I don’t have money to buy anything,” Alexander replied. The weight had returned. Henry stared at him for a second.

“You can borrow money from me. My father has a credit line with Brown’s-- that’s the tailor. Just go and tell them it’s for me.”

“You’re bigger than me.”

Henry raised a hand, “One of my younger brothers, then. Lie.”

Alexander smiled again, quietly, “Thank you.” He paused again, unsure what to do. Henry returned the grin.

“ _Go_ , then. Go find a passable outfit to wear to this wretched party.”


	13. Balance

Alexander kicked a stone from his path, shoving his hands into his pockets, still elated from his conversation with Henry. 

He pulled the thin coat tighter around himself. He felt several coins jingle in his pants, and wondered if he’d have enough for a strong mug of ale or if he should just give up and wander the graveyard again. Reminded himself that soon he’d have something to wear that didn’t once belong to someone else-- or smell like dirt.

He smiled to himself, looking down at his feet. Vaguely aware of some voices coming around the corner. Looking up, he felt his shoulders sag.

“Oh, no…” he whispered, flipping his collar up to hide his face as Burr and a small group of friends made their way down the street. 

“Not _now,”_ he muttered, ducking into the first building he came upon-- a dim tavern. He situated himself at a booth and stared out the nearest window, continuing to watch the other boy talk happily among his group of friends.

“You a vagrant?” A harsh female’s voice started Hamilton. He looked up to see a surly waitress wiping down a glass with a dingy towel. She eyed him up and down.

“Excuse me?” Alexander bristled.

“We don’t let vagrants sit idly in here. Order something or get out,” she pointed a finger at the door.

“Can I just have a tea, then?”

The waitress pursed her lips and looked him up and down before walking off in the direction of the kitchen. Hamilton felt his face burn. It would be like this until he could get new clothes. Burr’s group had stopped across the street and were talking in a circle, none of them looking out of place. 

The waitress placed his tea and saucer in front of him with a loud clatter, interrupting his thoughts. He cupped the porcelain mug, looked down into the hot liquid, letting the steam warm his face and hands. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Opening them, he saw Burr’s group heading towards the coffee shop.

“No-- no, no no--” Hamilton scrambled to look busy, picked up a book from his bag to hide his face in it as the door opened with a loud creak.

“She didn’t say that, Jon,” he heard Burr say, “She said she couldn’t stay with me because it would be _improper_. Not that she didn’t like me.”

“And so now our little Burr is so heartbroken he is going to live a penitent life of celibacy,” the one named Jon replied, to laughter. 

“I assure you I am not heartbroken.”

Alexander strained to listen, letting his tea get cold. 

“Well you’re going to eventually have to commit eventually. You can’t just wander around town causing a scandal.”

“He can, and he will,” a female’s voice chimed in. 

The table laughed again at what Hamilton assumed was an inside joke, chewing his lip. He scanned the lines on the paper distractedly, taking a sip of the now lukewarm tea and grimacing. He made a face, and the waitress shot him a look. 

“So you are to abandon Jon, and _then_ what?” A different female voice asked. “Find some sweet Christian girl and break all our hearts?”

Alexander rolled his eyes.

“I am in town to speak with my brother in law about legal studies… but I will figure things out as I go,” Burr replied. 

A sharp pang of jealousy hit Hamilton, “Must be nice to have that luxury.”

“Did you say something?” The waitress was back, looking annoyed again. She put her hand on her hip. “You’re acting like a lunatic, over here, muttering to yourself like you’re talking to voices.”

Hamilton turned red as attention was drawn on him, “No-- no, I’m fine.” He fished some coins from his pocket, ready to leave. 

“Ah! I know him!” Alexander heard Aaron call from the table behind him. His stomach sank, and he put on a polite smile. 

“Yes, hello, Aaron,” Hamilton waved awkwardly, “Hello everyone. I didn’t-- er-- see you there--”

The group looked up at him - it was four of them: Burr, the one called Jon and two girls. Burr stood and motioned to the table. 

“This is my dear friend Jon Bellamy. And that is Rebecca, and her friend Jane,” Aaron indicated to the girls, who smiled broadly at Alexander. He stomach swooped uncomfortably, a mix of attraction and envy. 

“Nice to meet you all,” He bowed his head at the girls, and reached out to shake Jon’s hand. “I was just...I was just heading to the tailor’s. So, I’ll be off--”

“Nonsense, sit with us for a bit, Alexander,” Jane offered, smiling sweetly. She moved over, and indicated he stay. 

Hamilton felt a hand on his back, heard Burr cut in, “I am only in town until Sunday. And I am afraid none of us can decide on how to spend the evening. We should like a fresh opinion.”

Burr pushed Hamilton into the booth beside Jane, and took his place next to Jon. Alexander set his bag of books down on the floor beside him, and tapped his fingers nervously against the rough wood of the table.

Jon indicated to the books and looked at Alexander, “At least you know the value of study.”

Hamilton laughed nervously, “It’s nothing, really, I just like to be prepared, I suppose.”

Aaron laughed, “You’re more conscientious than I am. I would go weeks without seeing a single class… I still can’t believe I graduated.”

Jon punched him playfully, “You and me both. And you’re _still_ lazy as anything.” The two boys shared another grin at an inside joke. 

“--Where are you taking classes, Alexander?” Rebecca asked from her cramped spot against the window.

The dreaded time had come. 

“Well, I... currently, Barber’s academy in town, and then...it is to be King’s College.”

Burr furrowed his brows and Hamilton chewed his lip; the feel of Jane’s dress against his leg.

“King’s? I thought you were to attend the College in New Jersey?” Aaron asked. 

“Well obviously that didn’t work out.” Alexander responded, acidly. The other three had grown quiet.

“Oh, I see,” Burr looked at him, tone inscrutable. Alexander felt his gaze, and his defenses rose. 

“King’s is a lovely school,” Jon interjected, kindly. “Bit British for my taste, but I am sure you’ll do well all the same. It’s what you make of the education, I always say. Why, my father once met a man who studied on his own terms, never once went to a university, and he can recite the whole of British common law in his sleep.”

“My mother never learned to read and she is the cleverest person I know,” Rebecca added helpfully. “She knows sums, that sort of thing.”

Jane nodded politely, purring, “I am sure you will do just _fine_.”

Rebecca made a noise, snapping her finger, “Ah! Aaron-- is this the boy who wrote those pretty poems?”

“Oh, I love poetry,” Jane interjected politely. The two girls tried to make conversation. Jane put a hand on Alexander’s, “What sorts of poetry? Can you recite it for us?”

Alexander’s stomach did flips and his cheeks burned, “I don’t...it’s not appropriate--”

“I think the girls would love to hear the one about the soul ascending into bliss,” Aaron offered, hiding a smile. In a lower voice, “Perhaps not the one about Celia.”

Jon looked down into his lap, chuckling.

Hamilton managed a pained smile, and stood to leave, grabbing his bag.

“I am sorry to go so soon but I _do_ have a lot to do today,” Alexander said quickly.

Burr stood with him. “You’re heading to the tailor’s? I shall walk you there.”

“That is unnecessary.”

“Very well.” 

Another bout of silence. Rebecca and Jane looked on, smiling. Hamilton studied them; something flickered behind their eyes.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Alexander,” Jon said, smiling. The two girls nodded and Alexander bowed his head again in their direction. He turned on his heel and without a final look at Aaron, headed toward the door, stomach grumbling.

The sun hit him cruelly in the eyes as he blinked, adjusting his vision from dim to bright. He hitched up his books, muttering. 

“What a good impression you’ve made.”

“Alexander! Wait!”

Alexander stopped and turned, his heart sinking as he saw Aaron running to catch up with him. He held out a thin stack of paper, rolled up and tied with a string.

“You forgot this,” Aaron said, handing it to him. “Looks important. Or maybe it’s not. Either way.”

Alexander took it, briefly realizing it was a group of letters from Ned. He felt his cheeks warm up, and shoved it in his pocket. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look peaked.” Burr remarked putting his hands in his pockets. “Miserable weather this time of year. The mix of hot and cold temperatures always make me sick.”

“No. I’m fine. Just...very busy,” Hamilton waved a book, “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get back to your friends in there.”

“Well, wait-- we were planning on meeting here one last time, Sunday afternoon, before I go back to Connecticut. Why don’t you join us then?” Burr smiled, “Surely your homework will have been done before Monday morning?”

“I actually have a lot. More than you can imagine--”

“--For Barber’s little academy? Come now.” Aaron’s grin faded slightly.

Alexander looked at the other boy for a moment, and frowned, studying him: he didn’t look tired, or thin-lipped, or ragged.

“Well, I find it challenging. I have done three essays this week, and have a fourth due Monday, as you’ve guessed. Not to mention the extracurricular studies in medical texts I have taken up. And King’s College expects their students to have fully translated the Bible into at least two languages _with_ annotations,” Hamilton counted on his fingers as he listed his projects.

Burr waved his hand dismissively, “Livingston’s an old fool. He’ll never check up on you. The crown loves to give useless busy work to their favorite students at His Majesty’s University for the Perpetually Stressed.”

“I don’t think it’s busy work,” Alexander’s defenses were up, “I enjoy it, actually.”

Aaron put his arm around the other boy, leading him back to the tavern, “Oh, you can _enjoy_ it just fine. But trust me, it’s busy work. It’s nonsense--”

Alexander shook him off, “--Some of us actually have to _try_ , you know.” 

The other teenager looked taken aback, “What do you mean? I didn’t mean to insult you, Hamilton. I was just making jokes.”

“Yes, well, you seem to be good at treating everything as a joke.”

“ _What_ are you talking about?” It was Burr’s turn to frown. 

Hamilton waved a hand at the tavern, “You. In there. ‘Oh, it’s just so easy. So fun. I don’t even go to class half the week. Some party every weekend. A different girl every other day.’ Well, congratulations to you.”

Aaron crossed his arms defensively, “I was… that was an exaggeration. I always tell stories like that in front of them. Not that you’d know.”

A carriage and two horses galloped past them loudly, interrupting them for a moment. Behind it, more horses. The clopping of the hooves echoed off the sides of the brick buildings. Alexander had a moment to control his thoughts, and stared at the dirt beneath his feet. 

“Hamilton, I’m sorry if I _offended_ you.”

“I am not offended,” Alexander’s temper returned as quickly as it had dissipated, “I just think you should… be more grateful.”

“Excuse me?” Aaron tilted his head. “I.. _.I_ should be more grateful?”

Alexander looked at him, widening his eyes, “Yes.”

“Look, I am sorry you were rejected from the College, but that is not my problem.”

Alexander felt as though he’d been hit, “I never said that.”

“No, but you reek of jealousy.” Aaron dropped his friendly facade. “Do _not_ tell me how to live my life. I’m not the one wandering around the town talking to himself, hiding from people who are just trying to be nice.”

Alexander let out a small laugh, “I am not jealous of you.”

“ _Well then why are you acting so?_ ”

Hamilton hitched his books up, and switched arms, “You have no idea how lucky you are. Not all of us have the privileges you do, and you would be wise to be a little more humble. That’s all.”

“Yes, well, thank you Reverend, I will be sure to keep that in mind while saying my prayers tonight,” Burr replied sharply. The pair stepped back as a woman with a cart of bread pushed rudely between them, unaware of the argument. The two teenagers paused until she was past, then Aaron cut back in, “And you would do well to practice your bookkeeping, then. We can always use accountants and bankers to keep track of other peoples’ money.”

Hamilton took a step toward the other teenager, who fell back slightly. Across the street, the group of friends exited the tavern. Jon shielded his eyes and called for Aaron to come back. Burr took one last look at the other boy, shaking his head. 

****

“You have got to be kidding me,” Hamilton mumbled, coming back to the Academy after the long walk home. The front door stood wide open; a set of muddy paw prints led up the stairs and into the house. Alexander picked up his pace to a jog and went inside. 

He followed the paw prints through the front foyer, noticing that they were new and wet, and that Livingston may not have noticed yet. 

“Dayton!” Alexander shouted, dropping his books off on a side table and sprinting up the stairs. He heard a muffled bark, and a boy's voice. 

“Dayton-- I swear on my life, if you brought that mutt inside--” 

Dayton stepped out of his bedroom looking guilty. He stood in front of the door, at attention, “Keep it _down_ , would you?”

“Open the door,” Alexander demanded.

He reached for the knob, and Dayton darted in front of it, “Come on. Don’t--”

“--Open it!”

“You’re going to tell Livingston!” 

From inside the bedroom, a loud bark. Alexander tilted his head back, frustrated, “Dayton. I will give you until the count of three--”

The sound of scrabbling paws against the bedroom door, and a low whine. Hamilton grunted and pushed the taller student away, opening the door. In a flash, the dog from the graveyard sprinted past him, covered in mud, bounding down the hallway. Alexander darted after him. 

“Not my bedroom!”

“He’ll only run faster if you chase him!” Dayton called after him, following. “You have to be kind!”

Alexander watched the dog leap onto his bed, tracking dirt and debris everywhere. To his horror, the animal grabbed several papers off his desk with his mouth and shredded them. 

“No! Stop it!”

“Come here, Hector--” Dayton called, patting his legs. “Here, boy.”

 _“Hector?”_ Alexander pushed the dog from his desk, and it leapt into Dayton’s arms. He picked up his ruined notes, and several books that were now missing pages. He looked from the mess, horrified, to the dog.

“He’s just a bit nervous. I have to train him. I’m going to take him hunting.”

“Get out!” Alexander shouted, pointing to the bedroom door. 

Dayton mumbled something under his breath and carried his new pet back down the stairs. Alexander watched the pair, despairing at the new mess and the smell of wet fur. He covered his nose and slammed his bedroom door, taking inventory of the damage. He noticed with some chagrin that none of Henry’s things had been messed up. 

Alexander threw himself into his desk chair, lifting several torn pages listlessly. 

He picked up two books from the floor, ruined, taking note of the titles. He closed his eyes, muttering, “God, come _on--”_

He clenched his jaw and tossed them into the fireplace.

Alexander stuck his head out the door, “Those were McDougal’s books your stupid beast destroyed, Dayton!”

He slammed the door again, rattling the windows. In the next minute he was sweeping dirt from his desk, pulling out a sheet of parchment. He chewed a nail, toying with a small lie in his mind.

_It is with the utmost chagrin I am obliged to inform you, that I am not able to return you all your pamphlets. I beg you will not impute it to carelessness for I assure you upon my honor the true state of the case is this—I put your pamphlets in the case with my other books; and some person about the college got into my room through the window, broke open my case, & took out two volumes of natural philosophy and a Latin author. _

Alexander read over the letter and folded it, shoving in his pocket for further inspection later. 

“What the hell happened here…?” Henry came into the room, dropping his bags off and looking around. 

“Dayton brought some bloody dog home.” Alexander lifted a hand. “It got into my things and destroyed two books and some pamphlets. They didn’t even belong to me. Now I have to come up with a reason why I won’t be able to return them.”

Henry nodded wordlessly. He threw himself back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

Alexander eyed him, “What’s wrong?”

“Boudinot’s infant died this morning,” Henry said. “My father just told me.”

Alexander felt his stomach sink, “What?”

Henry turned on his side, “Boudinot is taking a longer leave of absence. I don’t know if he’ll ever come back. Not sure who will be teaching his lessons but...from what my father is saying, he’s inconsolable. Incoherent, even.”

“That’s...horrible,” Alexander sat down on the edge of his own bed.

“My mother was going to cook them some meals, and watch the other children for them. I thought about doing something nice for Boudinot but I don’t know,” Henry added quietly. 

Dayton quietly cracked the door open, “Can I come in?”

“As long as you don’t have that dog with you,” Alexander replied tiredly. 

“Mr. Livingston made me keep him in the barn.” Dayton replied, defeated. He shut the door. “Have you all heard the news?”

“Yes. We’re trying to decide what to do to cheer Mr. Boudinot.” Alexander answered. He put his chin in his hands. “My neighbor’s child died, when I was a boy. The family was thankful for any help they could get.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reeve are going to go over to their house Monday evening. They invited us,” Henry offered from his bed. 

Alexander turned back to face the half-finished work on his desk. 

****

Aaron made his way down the stony path, darting out of the way as a carriage rolled past, keeping his eyes on the white house in the distance. Though he’d never been to Barber’s academy in person, he knew where it was, and who owned it, and who attended-- “Look for the large white house at the end of the street”, people told him. 

He ascended the steps, and knocked on the door. Dayton opened it after a second.

“Can I help you?” 

“Hello, yes. My name is Aaron Burr. I believe we met a few weeks ago... I was wondering if you had a student here called Hamilton?” He asked politely, peering inside. 

Dayton sighed, stepping aside, “Yes. I know you. Come in. He’s just upstairs, I’ll get him.”

“Thank you, I’ve forgotten your name-- I’m so sorry, Mr--”

“Jonathan Dayton,” the teenager stuck out his hand to shake, sheepishly. He rambled, “Sorry. I know you, you didn’t know me, I guess.”

“Yes, that happens a lot,” Burr replied under his breath. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing. May I wait in there?” Aaron indicated to the adjoining room with the table. Dayton nodded, then made his way up the stairs. He looked around the room, basking in the warm glow of the late Sunday afternoon, thinking about his ride back to Connecticut, and wondering if his travels would ever end. In the next few seconds, Aaron heard a loud bang, a swear, and a slamming door. 

“Sorry, he was busy, but he will be with you presently,” Dayton said, coming back down the stairs. He skipped every other step, seemingly full of energy. 

Burr watched him make his way to the back of the house, and through another open passageway, disappearing.

“Can I help you?” Hamilton appeared in the doorway, and Burr stood. 

“Hello, Alexander. I was just here to say...well, hello, and to ask if you were busy?” Aaron responded. Then, quickly, “I mean-- I know you are probably busy, that came out wrong. I suppose I mean, do you have a moment to take a walk with me? You may decline. It’s not terribly important, but I think our last interaction was--”

“--Yes. I mean, no.” Hamilton put his hands in his pockets, stepping towards him. “Yes I have a moment to walk with you. No, I am not busy.”

The other teenager smiled, indicating they walk out the front door. Alexander followed suit. The pair descended the steps in unison, and were silent for a full minute as they walked toward the path. 

“What were you working on this afternoon?” Burr asked politely.

“A bit of poetry for a friend who just lost a child,” Hamilton responded shortly. 

Next to him Burr let out a soft, “Ah...Boudinot. Of course.”

“You know him?” Alexander softened.

“Through my sister and brother in law, yes. I visited with Mr. Reeve earlier today to discuss my studies. What a terrible thing.” The heaviness fell between them and Aaron searched for a response, "I know a woman who had twins last week, so I suppose the balance is kept up, right?"

Alexander stopped, expression darkening, _"What?"_

"I was just..." Aaron studied the other teenager's expression, immediately regretting the joke, "...God, I don't know why I said that. Just forget it."

The two teenagers were quiet for several more seconds.

“I suppose I should also apologize for last week,” Aaron tried again, staring at his feet, letting the cool breeze soothe his burning cheeks. 

Alexander nodded, “I accept your apology. I was harsh, too. I should not have taken things so personally.”

“Sometimes I...with Jon…” Burr trailed off, searching for words, “He is very important to me, and I want him to know that I am enjoying myself. And the girls--”

Hamilton cut him off, “--Say no more.”

“How much time do you have this afternoon?” Aaron asked. The crunch of the stones beneath their feet echoed off the trees and buildings around them. A crow screamed in the distance. As they approached the town center, they could hear the calls of the people in the market.

“I can spare a few hours,” Alexander replied softly. He stopped walking abruptly. Aaron turned back to look at him, noticing the expression of worry on his face. He continued, “Where are we going?”

“Well, I was thinking about the tavern. Though we mustn’t get caught,” Burr smiled to himself, “I lied to Jane, Rebecca and Jon to get out of meeting with them. They think I am visiting a senile old uncle.”

Hamilton stepped closer, “No, I can’t. I am sorry.”

“Why not?”

Hamilton felt his face burn, “I don’t…” He faltered. “My funds-- Unfortunately, I--”

“Oh! Do not worry about that!” Burr grabbed his arm, pulling him forward, “I will of course pay. This is my apology dinner to you.”

Alexander breathed a sigh of relief, keeping pace with the other boy, laughing, “How will I repay you, then?”

“You must never insult me,” Aaron responded, grinning. “If you insult me, you will owe me the full cost of this dinner.”

“So, by that logic-- if I just pay you six shillings, may I insult you whenever I want?”

They reached the town center, pausing at the main street as a carriage rolled past noisily. They walked on further, making a left down an alley, stopping in front of the faded building.

Burr reached for the door, opening it, “Sit with me at dinner and I will let you insult me for free.”

Hamilton nodded, walking past him and into the dimly lit tavern. Burr motioned for a table in the back. They sat across from one another, and Aaron waved the tavern-keep down. 

“Anything but the liver,” Alexander muttered.

Aaron laughed, “No. Today we will be safe. How does beef stew sound?”

“Perfect.”

The orders were placed, and the two teenagers sat quietly for a moment. 

“It is nice to get out,” Hamilton spoke up. “I haven’t left my bedroom in days. I think Henry thinks I’m going insane.”

“When Dayton answered the door I didn’t recognize him. He probably thinks I’m insane, too.”

“He’ll get over it. You know this morning I caught him taking one of my books without asking?” Alexander replied, accepting a glass from the barmaid, “I told him I’m not running a library. His idiot dog already destroyed several volumes...”

He trailed off shaking his head. Aaron watched him. 

“I dislike having roommates. I want a place on my own, alone.”

Alexander nodded, “Indeed.”

The conversation died for a moment, the two boys looking around at the different patrons. An old man sat asleep by himself at the bar. A group of young women giggled amongst themselves, eyeing them. A gang of older, ragged sailors traded stories at a larger table in the other corner. Hamilton spoke again.

“It seems your cousin Matthew was right.”

“Now there’s a phrase I don’t hear every day.”

Hamilton smiled, “I mean to say-- about Witherspoon. Mentioning you at my interview. I thought the old man was going to die then and there.”

“You didn’t,” Burr replied, his grin fading. 

“Alright, maybe not you by name specifically. But I did mention Reverend Knox, and by extension--”

Burr closed his eyes, “They will disavow having ever known me.”

Hamilton laughed, shrugging, “Well. Now you see how well _that_ went.”

“I feel awful. My God, if I could force them to accept you I’d pay your tuition in full, as well, for the trouble.”

Hamilton blushed deeply, grabbing his glass and taking a sip to hide his face. Burr looked around, seemingly oblivious. 

“I have always wondered what goes on at King’s. Now I will have my own personal spy.”

“I would _never!_ ” Alexander pretended to be angry. “Spy on His Royal Highness? You must be mad.”

Another few seconds of silence passed. Burr looked at his guest intently. He swallowed.

“I sincerely hope you will do well at King’s, Little Hamilton. I should not have brushed your efforts off so callously. There is nothing easy about your journey.”

Hamilton stared at the other boy for a moment, searching his face for signs of insincerity. Finding none, he softened. He spoke, “Nor I, yours.”

Aaron let a tiny, sad smile play on his mouth, “Oh, I will be fine.”

“Last year you seemed less than enthusiastic about your religious studies.” Alexander said quietly. He looked down into his plate, moving some pieces of beef around. He stabbed one and put it in his mouth, stopping himself from saying too much. 

“I have been expecting this since I could talk,” Burr replied. Hamilton studied him again; The sincerity was gone.

“Besides,” Aaron continued, “I cannot imagine the holy hell my family would raise if I even whispered the idea that I wanted to lead a purely secular life. I would be cast out.”

“That might not be a bad thing, from one cast-out to another,” Alexander responded. 

Aaron looked at him. Then, “No, I suppose you are right. My God, you are unique.”

“Now what is _that_ supposed to mean?” Alexander smiled broadly, blushing again. “You’ve already apologized, there’s no need for flattery.”

Burr raised a hand, gesturing, “I mean you are _free_. You are not beholden to some idiotic name. Some institution or ideal. You are free to make your own way. You came here alone, by your own force of will. I wish I could have such an opportunity.”

Aaron said the words before he could stop himself, adjusting himself in his seat uncomfortably. He took a sip of his drink, avoiding the other boy’s eye-contact. He looked out the window at the sunset, feeling Alexander’s gaze.

“I never looked at it that way.”

Burr shrugged, staring at the table. 

Hamilton closed his eyes, breathed in, and remembered. He opened his eyes, and saw Burr staring back at him. He moved his necktie, and pulled his collar down, pointing to a tiny, pale scar where his shoulder met his neck

“This is from a piece of glass. A window shattered during a hurricane. I walked past it. If I had been there even two seconds later, I would have lost my eye. Four seconds, my vein.” He pointed to his pulse, where his jugular vein throbbed. 

“Seems _you_ are the lucky one,” Aaron said. 

“The only thing I could think of when it was all done, looking around at the utter devastation, was, ‘where on _earth_ can these people go?’ They lost everything. St. Croix is provincial. They have nothing-- no type of industry, save for the poor souls who arrive on the slave ships. No farms. No banking system. Everything on the island is controlled by someone else. Most days, it was utter chaos.”

He put a hand on the table, “ _All_ we have in this world are institutions and names and ideals. Without them we are adrift.”

Burr leaned in, dropping his voice, “And so what are your plans, Little Hamilton?”

Alexander sighed, leaning back in his chair, “I will attend King’s College and be a diligent student.”

“My point is-- you have that choice to make. I do not.”

“You do,” Alexander looked up at him, eagerly, “You do have that choice.”

Aaron shook his head. Alexander pressed him. 

“What is it? Tell me what you would rather do. Pretend I am your family,” Hamilton put his hands together in front of him on the table, straightening his back. His smile faded. Burr looked at him and raised an eyebrow skeptically. 

“You are kidding me, right?”

“I am not.”

Burr looked around him, slightly embarrassed, then, “Okay. Well. I am not sure how to begin.”

“Out with it, Little Burr!”: Alexander deepened his voice in what he thought was a decent imitation of Reverend Knox. A few patrons stared at the two teenagers. “I have to go give a very important sermon, you know!”

“Keep it _down_ ,” Aaron said, grinning. “You’re going to cause a scene.”

The waitress brought them two more drinks. Alexander accepted them eagerly.

“Little Burr,” he began again in a quieter voice, “What brings you into...er…” Alexander faltered, “...my office? I don’t know how these things go.” 

He alternated between his impression of the older man, and his own voice. Aaron covered his face, chuckling. Hamilton continued, “What brings you in front of me, today?”

Aaron cleared his throat, took a sip of the ale, and then, “Well, sir. I have been thinking.”

“Thinking? What have you been thinking about? Our Lord and his sacrifice, I hope.” 

“No, Reverend. I have been thinking about what I should like to do with my life.”

Burr looked at Hamilton helplessly, the latter boy urging him on. Burr grabbed his glass, and finished what was left in several nervous gulps. He placed it down loudly.

“I have been thinking about what I should like to do with my life, and it does not include the Bible in any way shape or form.”  
Alexander broke character, laughing, “Good _Lord_ , not like that. He’s going to think you want to lead a life of Catalinian debauchery.”

“Well, maybe I do,” Aaron responded. “Reverend, I want to lead a life of Catalinian debauchery.”

“Get out of my office, Little Burr!” Alexander yelled. 

“Would you two shut up!” An angry customer shouted at them from the table to their left. The two teenagers descended into laughter. Hamilton apologized, turning red. 

He spoke up, in a lower voice, “That went well, I think.”

“Oh, you think?” Burr responded sarcastically. “I think if that is how I approach things I will be stoned in the streets.”

He was quiet for a moment, toying with his deeper desire, debating rapidly, internally-- then spoke again in one breath.

“I want to study law and become a soldier. There’s going to be a war, at least I _hope,_ which will help distinguish our generation--”

Hamilton coughed, swallowing another gulp of ale too quickly.

“Are you alright?” Burr frowned at him. “You’re drinking too fast, I think.”

Alexander held up a hand, felt the coughing fit lodge itself in his throat. He covered his mouth and shook his head, voice strained, “I’m fine.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, “Just…take it easy, Little Hamilton.”

“Please, go on.”

“Reeve told me today he has some spare time and would love if I could study under him, and I admit I am more excited about this prospect than I have been about anything in a long time,” Burr added. A sudden wave of sadness overcame him, and he felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Do not be sorry. You are being honest. That is a good thing.”

The pair of teenagers continued their conversation as the sun turned the dim tavern orange while it set. In a few minutes, the tavern keep made his way around the small, warm room, lighting the candles. Outside, the sky turned from dark blue to deep purple. Empty glasses surrounded the two boys-- the waitress eyed them suspiciously as she brought their fourth round of ale. 

Hamilton felt light headed, his body fighting against the alcohol, “My God, what time is it?”

Burr pulled out a golden pocket watch, squinting, “Half past nine?”

Alexander covered his face, “I haven’t finished _any_ of my essays.”

“That’s nothing. I am supposed to be awake at four am tomorrow to catch this bloody coach back to Connecticut. Excuse me, miss?”

Aaron waved the barmaid over. Alexander eyed him as he pulled out a small fortune from a pouch in his pocket, paying for their meal and drinks and tipping the woman handsomely. She walked away smiling, and Burr slipped the purse back into his vest pocket. 

“Are you ready to go, then?”

“You shouldn’t have spent so much on me,” Hamilton said, lowering his voice. He stood up slowly, tripping slightly on a raised floorboard. Burr caught him, steadying him. He continued, “I am embarrassed.”

“Nonsense, I enjoyed myself. Think nothing of it.”

“Will you hand me my coat? I can’t move that fast right now.”

Aaron helped the other boy into his jacket, “We need to get out of here before they riot. The barmaid told me the tavern keep hates it when people just sit for hours and take up space. He’s going to demand we pay rent.”

“But we are paying customers,” Hamilton said. He spoke a little louder, “We are _paying_ customers, sir. We may sit here for as _long_ as we like.”

Burr shushed him, chuckling under his breath, and ushering him out the door. “You’re going to get us shot, for God’s sake.”

The pair stepped outside, and as soon as they were out of earshot from the tavern, they laughed into the night air, doubling over. Alexander felt his head swim, the world spinning around him. 

“That was delightful. Consider your apology accepted, Little Burr,” Alexander said after a moment of walking. “Now, if you see me in the morning, ask me again how happy I feel.”

Aaron stole a glance at him, then, “Drink as much water as you can. Buckets full. You will have to relieve yourself one hundred times tonight, but trust me, the alternative is worse.”

Alexander made a face, “I will try it.”

He saw the academy looming on the horizon, its windows glowing orange from the lights inside, and he felt his shoulders sag. Reality came flooding back to him in stark relief. He stopped walking.

“What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick?” Aaron asked, turning back to look at him. 

“No-- it’s just--” Alexander faltered. He was his with a wave of an unnamed, heavy emotion, and he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something deeper. Aaron looked at him, concerned, and walked closer. He waited; Hamilton spoke, “I don’t want to go back, either.”

“Oh, it won’t be that bad. I bet Livingston is asleep already. He won’t even hear you come in.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t know.”

“You want to walk some more?”

“I don’t know what I want.” Hamilton looked at the other boy.

Burr replied, “A far cry from your confession a few hours ago.”

“I am serious. What am I doing?” Hamilton responded, suddenly feeling emotional. He crossed and uncrossed his arms, then put them in his pockets, pacing. “I am eighteen. I am a man. I have no prospects. I am not even going to the school I like-- I am… I am adrift! What am I _doing_?”

“You are rambling drunk. That is what you are doing. Let’s go,” Burr put his arm around the other teenager, and pulled him toward the house. He felt the heavy weight of the other boy, unsteady on his feet, leaning into him. His own drunkenness was compounded by Alexander’s, and the two tripped over a large rock in front of them. 

At this, Alexander broke down, laughing, “Careful!”

“I will leave you in the dirt if you keep tripping me,” Aaron replied. 

“I want to write poetry. That’s i _t.”_

Burr tripped again.

“You can let go of me if I am dragging you down, I am fine,” Hamilton said, pushing the other boy away. “I am going to go inside and stay up all night writing poetry, I think. I cannot sleep. Damn these essays.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They made it to the bottom of the stairs, and Alexander slowly ascended them. He walked in through the front door, head spinning, without looking back. Aaron watched as he disappeared, the door locking with a loud, final click. 


	14. Introductions

Alexander lay in bed, unable to sleep, the room spinning around him. 

For the first time in weeks, he felt content. 

He replayed the dinner, smiling in the dark. The new country was not as unfriendly as he’d worried.

He heard Henry turn over in his sleep. Alexander pulled the blankets up to his chin, the draft from the evening creeping into the small bedroom. He stole a glance at the sleeping boy, and quietly sat up, preparing to get out of bed. 

In several silent minutes, Alexander found himself wandering alone outside, the full moon peering at him from behind trees, beginning to show the first signs of autumn. The night breeze picked up, and he followed the path to the graveyard. 

_For the sweet babe, my doating heart / Did all a Mother’s fondness feel; / Careful to act each tender part / and guard from every threatning ill._

“A poem…” Alexander muttered, setting himself up on the soft earth, back against the old oak. He pulled out a plain piece of paper and a hard book to lean on. He pulled his knees up, set the paper on the book and began writing. 

_But what alas! availed my care? / The unrelenting hand of death, / Regardless of a parent’s prayer / Has stopped my lovely Infant’s breath—_

Though his head felt heavy, the alcohol made him romantic, keeping his mind whirring with activity.

_With rapture number Oer thy Charms, / While on thy harmless sports intent, / Or pratling in my happy arms—_

Alexander felt the tears well in his eyes in another second. The only sound was the rustling of leaves and the scratching of the pointed nub, ink running and rubbing on the right side of his palm as he sloppily dragged it across the parchment. He took a deep breath, steadying. 

_No More thy self Important tale / Some embryo meaning shall convey, / Which, should th’ imperfect accents fail, / Thy speaking looks would still display—_

He put the end of the quill to his mouth, dragging it along his cheeks, still numb from the ale. He closed his eyes and put his head back against the bark, feeling the rotation of the earth. How many times would he be allowed to travel around the sun?

_Thou’st gone, forever gone—yet where, / Ah! pleasing thought; to endless bliss. / Then, why Indulge the rising tear? / Canst thou, fond heart, lament for this?_

Hamilton saw himself standing on a precipice. A cliff overlooking waves. The call of the void; the mundane sloshing of alcohol in his brain. His head began to hurt. He wondered what on earth an infant would take with them into the ocean of the afterlife. 

_Let reason silence nature’s strife, / And weep Maria’s fate no more; / She’s safe from all the storms of life, / And Wafted to a peaceful Shore._

****

Aaron could still taste Jon’s goodbye-- bumping along in the muddy road, the same uncomfortable carriage, and perhaps, Aaron thought, the same surly driver. 

_No, that is almost too romantic._

He looked out the window, watching the Bellamy’s house get smaller and smaller. He wanted to cry, felt like he _should_ , but the tears wouldn’t come. 

“I will write to you every day-- every emotion of my heart,” Jon had breathed.

This was how it would be. 

He looked down at the letter from his brother in law in his lap. Reeve’s words; Sally’s handwriting. He smiled. 

At least someone would be happy about his sudden change of heart. 

He could practically see his sister’s bright, happy smile lighting up her face at the idea of her brother coming home-- coming to stay with them. Aaron realized quickly she was the only one who didn’t take umbrage with every decision he ever made. 

Aaron pulled out a book from his bag and steadied it on his lap. 

_My Dearest--_

He paused, closing his eyes and laughing. He wondered what Jon would say if he knew Aaron couldn’t even make it out of town without scrawling some silly letter to him. He chewed his lip. No, that would not do. 

He crumpled the parchment and tossed it out the window.

****

It was a chilly, mist-covered morning when Hamilton ran into Robert Troup, round-faced and worried, milling around King’s College campus. 

“Ah! Hello, Alex. Embarrassing to be meeting you in such a state, I-- I didn’t expect to see you here…”

He trailed off, wringing his hands and looked around distractedly.

Alexander sighed, half-distracted, “Just...thought I’d take a day to explore and acquaint myself with the university…”

“I am looking for a lost essay, if you can believe.” Troup huffed, then sat down on a nearby bench, oblivious to the look of confusion on Alexander’s face. Troup squinted his eyes and gazed intently in a patch of bushes.

“I was here last night, writing outside, because it was so pleasant, and the rooms are – well, you would not believe some of the noises I hear. The walls are so thin, and there are _rules_ against that kind of thing, but no one pays attention. There’s a pretty little graveyard with benches just down the path there. Anyway, I—”

“—You’re…looking for an essay? As in, loose papers?” Hamilton stepped forward. Robert looked at him and nodded.

“I know what you’re thinking, ‘Who is this lunatic wandering around the campus at such an hour?’ But I can assure you. The wind blew it out of my bag last night. It has to be here.” Troup stood up again, took a deep breath, and made his way to the bushes. 

Alexander followed, and soon, the two boys were picking apart branches here and there, trying to spot a flicker of white.

“There!” Alexander pointed. Beneath several layers of rotten leaves, was a soggy, half-torn essay.

Robert’s shoulders fell, “Ah, yes. That would be it. I was hoping it would be legible enough to turn in.”

Hamilton squatted down, and fished the wet paper out from the bush, accidentally tearing it in two.

“Oh, I’m sorry—ah—”

Robert winced as he took his ruined essay from Hamilton, “You may now officially refer to me as _Academic Probate.”_

Alexander laughed, “Well, Academic Probate, are you officially expelled from King’s College? Are you now free to cause revolutionary havoc in the streets of New York?”

Troup looked at him and grinned, “Havoc, indeed.”

He took one last look at his essay, crestfallen, and crumpled it into his pocket. “And you? I have never seen you around here before either. Are you still in Elizabethtown with the Livingstons?”

Hamilton sighed. Troup took the cue. 

“Oh dear, nothing bad happened, did it? I hear William Livingston can be a bit strict with his students, but you always struck me as--”

“--No, no. It’s not that,” Alexander looked at the other boy’s kind expression, and his defenses fell, “These past few weeks have taken a toll on me. I am recovering from a rejection. I am...not to attend the College of New Jersey as I originally planned.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. 

Troup filled the silence, “Oh, pay no mind to that. I knew when I met you you’d do better here. The College is...well. It’s a bit of a _club_ , if you catch my drift. They look for family backgrounds, that sort of thing.”

Alexander looked at him, somewhat alarmed, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, I just mean-- the Burrs and Edwardses and Witherspoons and the Livingstons-- they’re all the same, you know?” The pair began walking down the path as the sun peeked through the trees.

Alexander swung his hands, clasping and unclasping them, unsure what to say. 

Troup continued blithely, “They are good people, but rather...ah. Set apart.”

Hamilton thought about his notes back in his bedroom.

_Shouldn’t you be working?_

“‘Set apart’? Are _we_ not ‘set apart’?” Alexander looked over at the other boy, who laughed. 

“You know what I mean. Old family. Connections. Not like us.”

“You have no idea,” Alexander replied softly. He felt Troup link arms with him. 

“Not like us poor, suffering Tories.”

At this, Hamilton felt a laugh bubble inside of him, “I suppose I am resigned to this fact.”

“What brings you out so early? We know why I was wandering around the gardens like a booby. But you?” Robert looked at his friend, and grinned. “Unless…that is, unless this is the garden of lost essays and we have stumbled into some bad fable.”

Alexander responded, tired, “No. Actually, I have been awake all night. Usually I walk in the graveyard in Elizabethtown. This morning I came across the river to walk around the city. To clear my head, see a bit of new scenery, just for the day.”

“That is quite a journey.”

“I am in the process of moving to New York,” Hamilton stole a glance at his new friend. “I have to find my way around somehow.”

Robert nodded, unphased, “One piece of advice I have is to keep all important papers securely locked away. Not in bushes.”

Alexander chuckled again, “Noted.”

The pair walked on for another few minutes, and Hamilton felt the weary weight from the past year lift off his shoulders as Troup regaled him with college stories. He talked about the professors, good and bad—it was refreshing, Alexander thought, to hear another human voice that did not demand something of him. 

“You will enjoy it here,” Robert continued, kicking a stone from the path. He was silent for a moment, then lowered his voice, “I know we joke but...I do not know your feelings towards the British Crown, but…well…”

Alexander perked up, “What do people make of it?”

Troup sighed, “That essay I was writing. It was some drivel on the benefit of increased taxation. I was to write a legal case for levying taxes against stamps, and other paper products. I cannot even think about the nonsense I had to put into words. It was a wonder I was even able to find one positive thing to say about it—”

“—You had to argue in favor of the Crown?” Hamilton dug his hands in his pockets and listened to the other boy’s words.

“Yes, as a bit of a rhetorical exercise, for the debate club.” Robert looked at him quickly, suddenly nervous, “But you mustn’t think I don’t see _some_ benefit to taxation, I am no blood-thirsty fanatic, eager for war.”

Hamilton frowned, stared ahead of him. A sharp wind cut between the two students. They walked further past a flock of pigeons that ascended into the cold air, cooing, at the first sight of humans. The sun hit the river, and Alexander held a hand up to shield the brightness from his eyes.

“I’ve said too much, I fear I’ve given you the wrong impression once again…” Robert said quickly, “I do not mean to say King’s College is biased, per-se, but I hope to only give you a fair assessment before you attend—”

Alexander realized he’d been quiet for too long, “—No, no, of course not. I have no bias one way or another. I have yet to study the subject in depth.”

At this, Troup raised his brows, and unburdened himself, “Well, let me warn you. You will struggle to stay unbiased for long, my friend. These people here are…the word they style themselves as is ‘Loyalist’, I believe. The implication being, of course, that the rest of us are _disloyal_. I tell you, when I first heard the word, I was so furious I could hardly speak…Loyal to _whom_ , I ask you?”

Robert trailed off, Hamilton watched him intently.

“You are saying the school is predisposed to favor those with ideological ties to Britain, then.” Alexander concluded after Troup had told his story. The latter student nodded sadly. Alexander spoke again, “Surely not _everything_ the Crown does is evil, then? Surely they only have their colony’s best interests at heart?”

As the words left his mouth, Hamilton could almost hear Hercules howl with laughter. 

“I have had to hold my tongue these past few years, but…” Robert stopped walking, and breathed in deeply, as if he were confessing something, “…I tell you, Alex. If it ever came to war…as some have whispered...I do not know in good conscience if I would be able to be as unbiased as some profess to be.” 

Alexander looked at the other student, nodding, a new energy coursing through him. He saw the main building of King’s College in the distance, looming like a fortress to be infiltrated. 

****

“Ships passing in the night, I believe the saying goes,” Reeve leaned back in his chair, adjusting his vest after the filling dinner, “You just missed Alexander by a few days.”

“I take it he’s moved into New York, then?” Aaron asked, blowing a spoonful of potatoes off. He watched his brother in law, interested. 

Reeve nodded, “He’s begun the process. It will take a week or so to get fully settled. Seemed extremely excited, last time I spoke with him. Bright boy, he’ll do wonders, I’m convinced. It’s a shame you didn’t get to acquaint him with the College of New Jersey. I fear the conservatives at King’s will beat the spirit out of him.”

Aaron swallowed the potato in a lump; felt it travel down his throat painfully.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sally interrupted, “He seems to have more of a backbone of conviction than most boys his age.”

“I’m right _here_ , Sally,” Aaron grinned. His sister gave him a look. 

“I’m just saying. Last month it was seminary. This month it’s law. Next you’ll be telling me you want to pick up a rifle and move to Boston,” Sally shook her head, taking a sip of wine. “It’s unseemly, Aaron. Just pick a course of action and be done with it.”

Aaron returned the look his sister gave him; identical black eyes.

“May I be excused?” Aaron stood, pushing his chair in. 

Reeve raised a hand, “By all means. Get an early sleep. We start tomorrow at six am.”

Aaron walked down the hallway and stretched his neck, still sore from the carriage ride from Bethlehem a few days ago. He rubbed his shoulder, wincing. 

The bedroom was at the end of the hall. Aaron pushed the door open and fell onto the mattress.

The dinner sat uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

_Write to Jon. It’s been twelve days._

Aaron propped himself up on his elbows, recounting the eventful week he’d had. He closed his eyes and sat up straight, yawning. It would be rude to keep the story to himself. He ripped a piece of parchment from the nightstand near him. 

Without addressing it to anyone, he began writing.

Aaron paused and left the letter on the bed, walking over to the wardrobe and pulled out a more comfortable pair of trousers and a loose-fitting nightshirt. He changed into the pajamas, kicking his dirty day clothes into a pile at the corner of the floor. He walked back over to the letter, picked it up and closed his eyes, starting to laugh-- the idea of writing something to no one. 

Aaron crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire. 

He looked up, hearing a knock at his door.

“Aaron-- hope I’m not disturbing anything,” Reeve stuck his head in, “I just wanted to check in on you. Was the dinner alright? You hardly ate.”

“No, it was fine-- thank you.”

“I also came to let you know about this--” Reeve handed him a slip of paper; thick, graceful lines of ink, “An invitation to a party at the end of the month. Hosted by the Livingstons-- so I am certain you’ll want to be there,” Reeve concluded pointedly. 

Aaron took the invitation, scanned it, “We’ll be in Litchfield by then.”

Reeve replied, “Yes, but I think we can make it back for a visit. Especially given who will be attending. Sally wants to go.”

“Very well,” Aaron replied lazily. He lay back on his bed, grabbed a book from the nightstand. His brother in law eyed him for a moment, then spoke. 

“You don’t seem excited.”

“It will be the same three or four families, no doubt,” Aaron waved a hand. “Everyone angling for attention. Forgive me, but the whole thing makes me rather uncomfortable.”

Reeve laughed, “Of course. And I suppose you’re above all that.”

“Your words, not mine,” Aaron grinned, looked at him from the corner of his eye. 

The older man set the invitation on the nightstand, chuckling as he shut the door and headed back to his wife. Aaron stared at it, then picked it up after a beat. 

****

The guests began arriving at five o’clock in the evening. Alexander spent the day distracted from his studies, scatter-brained and pacing around his room. He began packing to leave for King’s College at sunrise, and by noon despaired that he hadn’t made much progress. Eventually he gave up and went downstairs to help prepare for the party. 

Outside, the decorations had been set up-- and the sun began to go down. Hamilton looked around, seeing people he’d never met. He fidgeted with his new vest, and walked back inside, finding a mirror. He made sure everything was in place: hair fixed and clean, shirt white and pressed, well-fitting pants. _Someone else’s clothes._

“You clean up nicely,” Henry came down the stairs, skipping the bottom step. Alexander turned, embarrassed. 

“Oh, I didn't hear you.”

“It’s fine,” Henry stepped in front of the mirror, fixing himself as Alexander had done. 

The pair walked back outside side-stepping a group of guests, chatting excitedly. 

Alexander looked around. Pretty flowered garland hung from a pagoda, underneath which was a long table covered in different types of food, interspersed with flickering candles. The blue sunset in the distance contrasted prettily with the orange flames and the multi-colored outfits of the partygoers. 

“Where’s your mask?” Henry nudged him. Behind them, Dayton crept up, grabbing them both by the shoulders and scaring them. 

“Ah!” Alexander turned on his heel, “What are you doing--?”

“Wanted to see if I could get you.”

Henry pulled Dayton’s mask up, “What on earth are you supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. A pig? I found it in a trunk in the attic,” Dayton took it off and looked at it.

“Great. That’ll impress the girls,” Henry muttered. “Come on. I need a drink.”

Alexander followed them to the table where the drinks were set out, and grabbed one. He scanned the yard again, looking over the tip of his glass. He leaned over to Henry, “So-- who’s who, here?”

Henry swallowed, pointing to each person in turn, “Not certain of everyone. A bunch of my father’s friends. That group of men over there--” he indicated with his drink--”I believe those are men from Congress. Don’t know their names. They want my father to go to Philadelphia.”

“For what?”

Henry shrugged, then continued, tilted his head in the direction of a young couple standing alone by a table, “That’s my sister Sarah and her fiancé John Jay.”

Alexander turned to look, eyeing the two: Jay-- tall and somber. Sarah, curvaceous and pretty. _What a contrasting pair,_ the teenager thought. He blushed and turned back to Henry. 

“And those people, walking in?” 

“Editors for his newspaper.” Henry downed his wine. 

Alexander sighed, taking another sip, his eyes landing on Sarah again. Henry interrupted him, “My other siblings should be arriving, too. Along with whoever else wants to make a good impression on the Livingstons,” he added wryly. “Are you done with that? You’re drinking awfully slowly.”

“Oh...no, I--”

“Come on. I’m not going to stand here all night pointing people out to you. We shall make introductions,” Henry grabbed him by the arm, jerking it, and sloshing some wine on Alexander’s new breeches. 

“Sarah!” Henry called, waving at his sister, “Come meet Alexander.”

She eyed him, and Alexander suddenly felt foolish, the stain on his pants-- he whipped his mask off, blushing, “Hello... I’m Alexander, sorry about my stain--”

“--He’s a student with me. And Dayton, wherever the hell he got off to,” Henry added, patting Alexander on the back. 

Jay frowned, looking into the distance, pointing, “Is that him? With the dog?”

Henry turned, “Oh...blasted…” he ran over to the younger boy, leaving Alexander with the couple. 

“So you’re from St. Croix?” Jay asked politely, sipping his wine. Sarah studied Alexander, and he tripped on his response. 

“Yes. I was. I don’t...I’m not associated with it anymore, I mean-- this, here, New York is my home--or, I guess we’re in New Jersey right now, technically,” Alexander replied. He shut himself up by taking another drink. Sarah cut in. 

“How are you liking it here, compared to the tropics? Surely not as beautiful.” 

Alexander looked at her, “Well there’s more to it than beauty. It was a poorly run backwater, frankly. One storm rolled through and upset the entire island. Miserable place.”

Sarah looked put-out, “Oh, I see.”

“What are you studying?” Jay asked. 

“A bit of everything. Medicine, eventually, I think.”

A loud shout from a group of men behind them, and Alexander spun around to see the dog bounding through a nearby pond. In a split second, Dayton jumped in after it. Sarah made a noise, then laughed. 

“If you’ll excuse me…” Alexander muttered, burning. He marched over to the pond, gritted his teeth, “Jonathan! What the hell are you doing? You’re embarrassing us!”

“He stole my mask and ran! I jumped in to retrieve it--”

Alexander grabbed his arm, “Get out, for God’s sake-- everyone is laughing--”

“What’s going on over there?” Mr. Livingston called from a group of older men. Alexander raised a hand, apologetically, then shot a glare back to Dayton. He pulled himself out of the water and took off his shoes, dumping the muck from them. 

“Come on-- “ Alexander pushed him toward the house, “I’ll help you find some dry clothes.”

“Saw you talking to Sarah Livingston…” Dayton drawled, freeing himself from Alexander’s grasp, “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Alexander hit him on the arm, “Her father is right downstairs. Don’t be lewd.”

Dayton sputtered, reaching his bedroom, dripping water behind him, “ _Lewd?_ What kind of language is that? Are you sure _you_ don’t want to become a minister?”

He discarded his wet shirt, and Alexander turned his back to give the other boy privacy, crossing his arms.

“Anyway, she’s engaged. But her sister isn’t.”

“Who is that?”

A muffled answer, “Kitty. She’s just as pretty.”

“I doubt she’s going to want anything to do with you, Dayton, reeking of pond water and wet dog as you are. Just try not to embarrass Mr. Livingston. Henry told me this party is extremely important to him.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Alexander turned back around, “There. Now you look presentable.”

“And what about you,” Dayton indicated to the stain on his pants, “Don’t think we can’t see your little accident.”

“Shut up. It’s almost dry and it’s practically the same color as the fabric.”

“I might have something…” Dayton fished around in his trunk. 

“And look like I’m wearing trousers meant for someone four inches taller than me? Absolutely not,” Alexander indicated towards the door, “Let’s _go_. I don’t want to miss any of the introductions.”

The party continued as the sun went down and a chill rippled through the air. Alexander introduced himself to as many people as he could, listened with rapt attention at different conversations floating in and out of his ears, around him. 

In the flickering light of the candles, he could barely make out the faces of the other guests, and Alexander reached for his third glass of wine. He felt a presence behind him, and turned to see Reeve.

“Evening, Alexander,” He said happily, reaching in for a hug. In the next second Sally appeared at his side, and leaned in, kissing each of Alexander’s cheeks.

“What do you think of the New York _elite_?” Sally asked him cryptically, over the brim of the sparkling wine glass. Alexander watched her red lips spread into a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. 

“Don’t put him on the spot,” Reeve teased, “Alexander. You can be honest with us. Are you having fun? You look like you’re studying for an exam.”

Alexander swallowed his drink, responding a little too loudly, “I am!”

“You haven’t seen my brother around, have you?” Sally asked. 

“I believe I saw him head back into the house. The drawing room,” Reeve offered, looking into the windows and frowning. Alexander cut in. 

“Would you like me to find him for you, Mrs. Reeve?”

Sally gave him a pleasant smile, “Thank you, Alexander. That would be wonderful.”

Alexander offered the couple a grin, and made his way back into the house, skirting several party-goers who’d begun inventing a game using empty wine bottles to practice juggling. He watched them for a moment, wincing as one fell and shattered. 

He ascended the steps and opened the back door, entering the long hallway, sidestepping a table with half-finished plates of food.

In a moment he came into the drawing room. 

Upon seeing Alexander, Aaron’s face spread into a grin, “There you are. Reeve said you’d be around, but I couldn’t find you. How are you doing, Little Hamilton?”

Alexander returned the greeting, leaning in for a hug and smelling alcohol, “Wonderful. I take it your trip here was uneventful? Where are you staying now?”

Aaron finished his drink, “Litchfield. Are you at King’s yet?”

“Soon. I will move into the dormitories in a few days. With Troup.”

“Ah, so the prison sentence looms,” Aaron laughed. He studied Alexander for a brief second, then, “I brought some friends--” He lifted his glass and indicated to the same two girls he’d had lunch with a few weeks ago.

Alexander eyed them, “Jane and Rebecca. Yes, I remember.”

Jane stood, grabbing his hand, “I am so happy to hear about your studies.” Behind her, Rebecca followed suit, and greeted Alexander, placing a kiss on his cheek. Aaron eyed her. 

He stepped forward, “Rebecca, would you like to go outside and meet some more people?”

“Aaron, your sister is looking for you, out in the yard,” Alexander replied to the other boy, without taking his eyes off of Jane. 

“Well, there you go,” Aaron slipped an arm around Rebecca’s waist and pulled her along, leaving Jane behind with Alexander. 

****

Jane was easy to talk to, Alexander realized, and his plan to introduce himself with the stuffy New York politicians had fallen by the wayside quickly after Jane introduced him to a new drinking game she’d invented. 

“You have to take a sip every time you see someone exchange a little slip of paper-- oh! There!” She indicated to some of the newspaper editors Henry had pointed out earlier. She knocked her glass back, and Alexander watched her, doing the same. 

“What do you think they’re doing?” Alexander asked the girl. 

The pair sat on the edge of the lawn, far enough from the party to not be overheard, somewhat obscured by a blooming rose bush. 

Jane shrugged, “I can only imagine it’s something _very_ important. Look at their serious faces. Oh, there’s another--”

She pointed, and they drank. “I’m almost out,” Jane looked into her glass. 

“Take smaller sips,” Alexander offered, clicking her glass against his. She pouted at him. “Alright, fine. Have a sip of mine.”

He brought the glass to her lips, and she smiled over the rim.

In the distance, a crowd of people laughed. Alexander eyed the girl to his left.

“Where did you say you’re from?”

“One town over,” Jane replied airily. “Not nearly as interesting as your story. Aaron told me you lived on an island and wrote poetry.” She finished, staring at him dreamily. 

Alexander laughed into his glass, _“Did_ he? I assure you it’s not that romantic.”

Jane readjusted herself against the grass, facing him, “Oh, but it is! And did you take a pirate ship to Boston? Did you fight them off with gunpowder and muskets?”

“What on earth has he been telling you?” Alexander gave her a look, stomach flipping at the sight of her high-colored cheeks and dilated pupils. He swallowed. She put a hand on his arm. 

“If ...if the journey still affects you, and you don’t want to talk about it-- I understand.”

“No,” Alexander laughed again, “That’s not it, my dear. I’m afraid the real story is much more mundane.”

Jane moved closer to him, “I would still like to hear it.”

“Well…” Alexander licked his lips, closing his eyes, trying to get the details right, “I studied very hard, and worked very hard, and some kind people raised some money for me to attend school, here--”

“At King’s college, right?”

“,,,Yes.”

“What will you be studying?”

An unwelcome, heavy feeling crept upon him-- the one that slithered through his chest at any mention of his recent failures. 

Alexander cleared his throat, “I will try my hand at medical studies.”

At this, Jane made an appreciative noise, “A poet and a doctor? So you will both mend hearts _and_ break them?”

The heaviness disappeared; Alexander tilted his head back and laughed, “That is one way to put it.” He finished the last of his champagne and plucked a rose from the nearby bush, handing it to her. “It seems _you_ have a way with words, too.”

Jane blushed prettily and put the rose in her hair; the dusky pink contrasted nicely with the gold highlights in the dim evening air. 

“Aaron told me...you wrote a poem for a girl you knew, on St. Croix. Celia?” Jane asked innocently. She looked down at her hands, toyed with a bracelet around her wrist. “Who was she?”

“Ah...just some girl.”

Jane gave him a sardonic look. Alexander grinned at her. 

“She was a girl I...we pretended to be husband and wife. We were young and silly, you must understand.”

“Recite the poem to me,” Jane insisted. She turned her full gaze toward Alexander, delicate brows furrowing. Alexander loosened his neck tie. 

“You’re awfully forward,” He said in a low voice. “Are you sure you want to be acting this way in plain sight of everyone here? What if someone were to come and find us?”

Jane pouted, “No one will let me read it. Aaron showed it to Rebecca, but not me. He’s so mean. Am I not allowed to hear it at all?”

Alexander swallowed his nerves; reached out and placed a curl behind her ear, “That’s because some might think it inappropriate for innocent ears. Are you innocent?”

“No.” Jane insisted. She grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “Let us find a more private spot. Then you can tell me all about it.”

She pulled him along, around the side of the house. Alexander heard another shriek of laughter, and the smashing of a bottle. He turned to look back, stupidly, “Should we see what’s so funny?”

Jane didn’t answer. The two teenagers snuck back into the house through a back door. Jane seemed to know her way around the Academy well, Alexander thought, ducking behind a door and through a hidden hallway behind the kitchen. She pulled him further into a back bedroom Alexander didn’t recognize, and locked the door. 

“There,” she giggled, leaning her back against the door, “I don’t think anyone will find us. _Now_ will you recite the poem?”

Alexander walked up to her, smiling, “You cannot interrupt me. You have to be very quiet, and listen. No questions until I’m completely finished.”

Jane bit her lip, grabbing his necktie, bringing him in for a kiss.


	15. Belong

The sun had dipped below the horizon when Alexander woke up-- he opened his eyes slowly, coming down from the alcohol. He adjusted himself in the strange bed; Jane’s head on his chest and soft hair sprawled out around them. His heart raced and he panicked, hearing the guests outside. 

He gently removed her hand from his shoulder, trying not to wake her. He put his bare feet on the wood floor, wincing as he felt shards of broken glass from one of their champagne glasses that had toppled from the nightstand. He spotted his pants in a crumpled pile and carefully, quietly put them on. Next, his shirt--flung onto a chair under the window. Alexander looked around, squinting in the dim light, looking for his vest. 

Once fully dressed he snuck out of the bedroom, closing the door painfully slowly, turned the knob so even the latch wouldn’t click. 

_“Alexander!”_ Henry called from down the hall. “There you are!”

Alexander started, red-faced. Henry walked toward him.

“Jesus, we’ve been looking for you for hours. Dayton thought you got lost in the graveyard again. He’s probably still--” Henry paused, studying his friend, “--You look...different.”

Alexander pressed back against the bedroom door, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I was...napping,” he faltered. 

Henry squinted, “In the middle of the party? Some of the guests are leaving and they wanted to say goodbye--” he lifted his arm, still staring at the other boy. 

“Great. I’ll be there presently.”

“Are you sure you’re not ill? If you are, I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind calling for a doctor.”

From inside the bedroom came a girl’s soft moan, and a stifled yawn. Alexander winced.

Henry’s expression changed, and he crossed his arms, “...You’re _kidding_ me.”

“Do not tell anyone. Please,” Alexander turned red.

Henry moved towards the door, “Who’s in there?”

Alexander blocked him, “No one!”

“Alexander…?” Jane’s voice rang out softly. “Where did you go?”

Henry’s face split into a cruel grin, and Alexander blushed deeper. In the next second, the door handle jiggled. Alexander grabbed it, preventing Jane from opening it.

“What are you going to do? Leave her locked in there until everyone else leaves?” Henry teased. 

“Alexander, open the door!” Jane yelled, muffled. 

Just then, to Alexander’s dismay, Aaron appeared at the end of the hallway, walking nearer, “Have either of you seen my friend Jane? Alexander, I believe I last left her with you, and--”

Another muffled yell, “Aaron? Is that you?” Jane wriggled the handle, “ _Will someone please let me out of here?”_

“For God’s sake,” Henry shoved Alexander out of the way and yanked the door open, and Aaron covered his mouth in laughter. Jane appeared, high-colored and out of sorts. 

“Just what the hell is wrong with you?” She hit Hamilton on the shoulder furiously. 

He shrank, “I didn’t want you to be embarrassed-- _ow--!”_

Jane smacked him again while the other two boys looked on, laughing. She scolded him, “Well I’m embarrassed _now!”_

“Jane, Rebecca is looking for you,” Burr cut in. He indicated toward a nearby window, “She’s out by the pond.”

Jane gave Alexander one last scathing look, lifting a hand to put one last curl in place. Hamilton flinched again, and the other two boys stifled another round of laughter. She hitched up her skirts, pushed past them and made her way quickly towards the front of the house. 

They watched her leave, and as soon as she was out of sight, Henry turned to Alexander, “You’re an idiot.”

Alexander bristled, “How am I an idiot? No one would have known if you hadn’t been snooping--”

“--Some of the guests were asking about your studies, Hamilton,” Aaron interrupted again. He eyed the other boy, interested, “Though I take you two weren’t studying Latin in there.”

Henry tilted his head back and laughed again. 

“Shut up,” Alexander spat. “It’s none of your business. We were just having a bit of fun, that’s all.”

Burr widened his eyes, mockingly, “Whatever will she tell her parents? How will she _ever_ find a husband?”

“Oh I can assure you I’m not the first person to plow those fields,” Hamilton shot back crudely. He pointed down the hallway, “I don’t know what kind of girls you hang around, Burr, but if she’s any indication--”

“--She is a dear friend of mine, and how dare you insinuate such things. She is a good Christian girl.” Aaron replied sarcastically. 

Behind him Henry shook his head, still grinning, “What should I tell Mr. Jay? He asked for you specifically, Alexander.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute,” Alexander sighed, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. Henry gave him an exaggerated bow, and turned on his heel.

The two remaining boys were silent for several seconds. 

Aaron spoke up after the pause, “She won’t tell anyone. She’s very discreet.”

“Shut _up,”_ Alexander opened his eyes, fighting the urge to smile. 

“You’d better get out there. The longer you’re gone the more they’ll talk. You don’t know this crowd like I do,” Burr continued wryly. 

Hamilton ran a hand through his hair, “This was stupid.”

“Mr. Livingston mentioned your interest in Congress and now that’s all Mr. Jay wants to talk about. Says he wants to ‘hear new perspectives’, or something. I wasn’t really listening,” Aaron went on, “That’s when our intrepid search began.”

Alexander looked at him despairingly, “Please tell it wasn’t the entire party.”

“Just a few of us. Your secret is safe with me,” Aaron smiled at him, and Alexander suddenly felt exposed. Aaron dropped his voice, leaning in, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Hamilton’s stomach flipped, “...Excuse me?”

Burr gave him one last inscrutable grin, and disappeared down the hallway.

****

“Well, here it is,” Troup pushed the door open to his tiny dorm, and indicated Hamilton step inside. Alexander looked around at the sad state of the room, carrying the last box of his books. 

The room was bare and cold: white walls, brown beams. One small, square window on the far wall let in a moderate amount of light through the dirty glass. Troup’s bed, to the left, was made up, pristine. A small writing desk flanked it, covered in neatly stacked papers and a pile of six almost identically sized books. 

Alexander hoisted the box up, and walked over to the empty bed to the right, dropping them with a loud thud.

“What do you think?” Troup asked, shutting the door. “I straightened up a bit. You’re going to have to ask one of the servants for some blankets.”

Alexander nodded mutely, unpacking. 

Troup went on, “Oh, and you’ll have to shake the sheets out a bit before you use them. Someone got bed bugs last week…”

“Is there a bookshelf?”

“What? Oh, no...you just keep them on your desk--”

“-- I have too many,” Alexander replied, shoulders sagging. 

“Use mine,” Troup offered, lifting a hand to his own desk, “Look, I have space just here. We’ll probably end up sharing them, anyway, if you’re going to be taking more law classes.”

“These are all anatomy.”

Troup thought for a moment. Then, “Why don’t we separate them by subject? I’ll keep the law books at my desk, and you keep the medical texts at yours. I think there’s enough room for that.”

Alexander nodded silently. He sat on his bed with a sigh. 

“You seem...distracted.” Troup eyed him. He thought for a moment, then tried a new approach, dropping his voice, “...Look, if it’s about the party at the Livingston’s--”

“--How did you find out about that?” Hamilton looked up at him, alarmed. 

“You mustn’t think I’m a gossip,” Troup added quickly, “I ran into your friend Henry Livingston at the coffeehouse a few days ago and he related the story, and I chastised him for being so cavalier with your private affairs, but he wouldn’t stop talking--”

Alexander interrupted him by groaning and falling back onto his bed.

Troup went on, “--I don’t think anyone else remembers, though. Well, except maybe Mr. Jay, he seemed to think it was a bit humorous--”

Alexander shot up, alarmed, “--Jay knows?”

“Yes, but he brushed it off,” Troup insisted, trying to assuage his roommate, “Really, he thought it was funny. And Jane was very pretty, and she’s quite a forward girl, I hear, and Henry explained that the party was so very boring, really, I don’t blame you--”

“--Humiliating,” Hamilton covered his face, muffling his words, “All I wanted to do was make a good impression. And I could not have acted more idiotic if I tried.”

“There’s still time,” Troup sat next to him, “You should write to Mr. Jay. He loves getting letters from people.”

Alexander rolled over onto his stomach, face pressed against the bare mattress. He made a noise.

“You can’t lay here and fret about it forever, you know. You have much to catch up on.”

Troup clapped his hands; Hamilton turned his head and eyed him, _“Don’t_ clap at me.”

“Come, let’s unpack. I have three hours before debate club starts.”

“...What.”

Troup clapped again, “Debate club! Get up!” He walked over to his roommate and pulled him up off the bed. “You’re not going to lay there all night sulking. So what. You... _reposed_ with one of Aaron’s lady friends, that doesn’t mean you have to--”

Alexander straightened his back, “--You don’t think Burr brought her to me on purpose? To humiliate me.”

 _“What?_ Don’t be ridiculous,” Troup crossed his arms. “Can we please start organizing these books? Once that’s done we’ll get clean sheets on this bed.”

Hamilton shook his head yes, unfocused, “Yes, sorry, books. Of course.”

The pair worked in silence for some time, punctuated occasionally by Troup’s comments on the medical books. 

“Oh, that looks frightful.”

“Bobby, it’s a human birth.”

Troup turned the book right-side-up, a look of dawning realization on his face, “Oh…”

Hamilton swiped it from him, shoving it into a small nook. 

“So,” he tried, “Tell me about this...debate club. Are all members of the student body invited? Can anyone join?”

Troup nodded, situating three identical tomes next to each other, “Oh yes. I’m taking a friend with me tonight, to the first meeting of the year. You’ll learn quickly whether or not you’re a good fit, though everyone is very nice. But some are...not cut out for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rigors of debate,” Troup explained. “Some crumble under the pressure. You must attend every meeting, and keep your faculties about you when presenting in front of others. It sounds easy, but you wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen. One time, there was a boy called Peter, who...I shouldn’t say.”

Alexander sat back on the bed, smiling, “No, come on. You can’t bring it up and dangle it in front of me like that.”

Troup grinned, facing him, “He was a timid thing. We all knew he wouldn’t last long. During his very first speech, he stumbled over his words and retched all over the floor, in front of everyone.”

Hamilton laughed. Troup went on.

“It’s a very intense situation.”

“Sounds fun,” Alexander remarked, going back to work on organizing the books, “When can I join?”

“You can come for a trial run tonight, if you want. We’ll be joined by my friend Nicolas-- an old pro. I’ve seen him recite hours’ worth of Psalms without a stutter. You’ll learn a lot from him.”

“I don’t stutter.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean--joining a club,” Troup reiterated, “It will help you meet people and ingratiate yourself.”

Hamilton sighed, dusting his breeches and responding low, “That’s the plan.”

****

Burr twirled the quill in his hand, slowly, ruminating over the blank page before him and the exact moment he realized he was missing out.

Below him, he could hear the muffled voices of his sister and her husband-- a quiet, pleasant conversation about this or that, something immaterial-- and Aaron closed his eyes, putting his head down on his desk for a brief moment. 

He raised it back up, rubbing the spot where the hard wood dug into his forehead, looking outside at the blur of rain pouring down. The endless drone of water, obscuring the scene. He sighed, dragging the feather across his mouth. 

He tried not to think of trite, silly comparisons: a bird in a cage. A light beneath a bushel. A fish in a pond. But his mind was tired from the day’s studies and he concluded that he’d used up his capacity for interesting thought pouring over the dusty law books with his brother-in-law, who could, almost immediately, tell that Aaron’s heart was elsewhere. 

Back to the paper; Burr took the quill and dipped it, pausing. A tiny droplet of ink hit the white vellum, black liquid spreading out quickly like microscopic veins.

_Dear Matt-- Before I proceed any further, let me tell you that, a few days ago, a mob of several hundred persons gathered at Barrington, and tore down the house of a man who was suspected of being unfriendly to the liberties of the people._

The furious crowd had seethed and churned like an ocean. Aaron sat back. That was the moment. 

Aaron read and reread the sentences, the hollowness in his chest opening up. It could have been him, in that crowd, pressing forward and making his voice heard. He blinked slowly to focus again, dipped the quill back into the tiny well, and pressed it to the paper. 

_As many of the rioters belonged to this colony, and the Superior Court was then sitting at this place, the sheriff was immediately dispatched to apprehend the ringleaders. He returned yesterday with eight prisoners, who were taken without resistance._

He could almost hear Reeve’s voice-- “Prisoners need lawyers, Aaron. Your time will come.”

The rain let up slightly, and Aaron was able to see more clearly outside. The droplets dripped down the glass; the view a mosaic of water and distorted greens and white dots. In the distance, a crowd of people caught his eye. He tilted his head, bringing it closer to the glass, squinting. Unable to see anything clearly, he stood and pushed the small window open.

The crowd became clearer: a group of fifty or so people, Aaron estimated, in animated conversation with one another. He studied it, straining to hear what they were saying, the voices of his sister and brother-in-law interrupting him. 

Aaron broke away from the window, and made his way to the bedroom door. 

“Can you please keep it down?” Aaron peeked out over the landing and staircase to the rooms below, where his sister stood in conversation with Reeve. 

Sally paused her conversation, looking around, and then up. Reeve mimicked her, a tiny, amused smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. Sally’s expression hardened, “Excuse me? We were not talking to you, Aaron.”

“Some of us are trying to study, _Sarah,”_ Aaron added. 

“We’ll be more thoughtful, your excellency,” Reeve responded playfully, taking his wife by her arm and leading her to a different room.

His sister rolled her eyes and shook her head; Burr returned to his bedroom and took the next moment, in the ensuing quiet, to listen to the distant voices. 

It was impossible to tell, but it sounded, to him, very serious. 

Aaron plopped back into his chair, looking at the sparse words on his page. _This won’t do._

He watched the small crowd cheer at something, then quiet again. Several of the men raised what looked like walking sticks. Aaron propped his chin in his left hand and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the wet leaves. He smiled.

_This minute there is entering the town on horseback, with great regularity, about fifty men, armed each with a white club; and I observe others continually dropping in._

Aaron laughed to himself, imagining Matt’s reaction. A good soldier wouldn’t sit back and let a mob run rampant across an unsuspecting town. He quickly scribbled out a few more lines. 

_I shall here leave a blank, to give you (perhaps in heroics) a few sketches of my unexampled valor, should they proceed to hostilities; and, should they not, I can then tell you what I_ would _have done._

****

His first week had been a success, Hamilton thought, staring at the ceiling in the tiny dorm. 

He didn’t want to jinx it, but he let a small smile play on his lips in the dark, listening to the sound of Troup snoring. He replayed the scenes in his head.

“Now, listen, Alexander,” Troup had pulled him aside in the small, empty classroom where a handful of students had gathered for the debate club meeting, “This is a probationary period, you understand. You may not be called on, or asked to speak, but merely listen to what others have to say.”

“What good is that in a debate club?” Alexander looked at him.

“Small crowd tonight,” a different boy, Nicolas, said, walking up to them. 

“All the better to indoctrinate Alex, here,” Troup replied. “We wouldn’t want him getting overwhelmed.”

“Bobby, come on,” Alexander sighed. 

Nicolas looked at him, grinning, “You can just sit there and watch, if this is your first meeting. Unless you hear something so profoundly moving you just have to respond.”

That was how the first meeting had gone, and Alexander was proud of himself for managing to keep the peace, even when several students made arguments so banal Hamilton had to bite his tongue to keep from calling out in frustration. 

“You’re learning!” Troup smiled at him, and Hamilton returned it. 

Afterwards, they walked back to the dormitories, Troup extolling him, “You did great. Now you have a better understanding of what to expect next time.”

“You’re taming me, Bobby,” Alexander laughed. 

“Call it what you like. There was another boy in the club, I remember, I think his name was Paul, who…”

Hamilton let the memory fade as he rubbed his eyes, turning over in his bed. Troup _was_ a horrible gossip, despite his protestations to the contrary, but Alexander realized he liked it, and that it could be used to his advantage. HIs roommate seemed to have an unquenchable thirst to know everything about everyone, and Alexander thanked God, or Providence, or whoever was watching out for him that he’d managed to ingratiate himself with such a busy body. 

He took mental notes every time Troup spoke about this professor, or that pupil. 

“Doctor Thompson-- he is the old man with the dirty beard-- says that he does not accept late essays, but he is _lying_ , I assure you.”

Alexander realized he could goad Troup on with a single sigh, or a small look, and his round-faced, pudgy friend would spill forth. 

“Nathaniel, over there, _don’t look,_ he has been taking the same class for three years, and has failed it each time thus far. My advice would be to keep away, unless you want people thinking you’re a dullard.”

Alexander adjusted his blankets. Troup was funny.

“You must not let anyone know I’ve told you this,” he mentioned one afternoon, dropping his voice in a manner that Alexander had come to realize meant a fresh story, “But Mrs. Elliot, wife of the young anatomy teacher, you know him, has just last week given birth to a baby with bright red hair.”

“Bobby, what are you on about?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Elliot both have black hair! I ask you how it is possible for them to produce a child with red hair, unless Mrs. Elliot has taken a lover.”

 _“Bobby,”_ Hamilton heard himself, exasperated.

“So when you are in Mr. Elliot’s class, do take care to remember that he might be a cuckold, and take pity on him.”

Alexander covered his mouth and cackled silently in his bed, turning his face to muffle the sounds of it. His heart felt light. He poured over medical books night after night, reading the dead pages prescribing anecdotes and cures and tinctures for all manner of maladies-- but nothing felt as good as collapsing into laughter.

Several clouds rolled away from the moon, and as they did, the soft white glow from the fullness of it filled the room so thoroughly Alexander though it could have been dawn. He sat up and quietly swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded softly across the floor, to the window. He gently cracked it, pushed it open, and stuck his head out to breath in the night air-- cold and fresh. He’d never get tired of that feeling. 

Alexander didn’t have a single moment to think over the past week. It all moved quickly. His days were filled with studying, writing, and observing. He stared up at the moon, the silent, empty night, meditative. 

_If you spoke now, would God finally hear you?_

“What are you doing?” Came Troup’s voice from his bed. 

Alexander turned his head, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was...praying.”

“...Really?”

“Yes,” Alexander shut the window again, and crawled back into his bed.

****

Aaron clutched the letter and scarf to his chest, turning his body to the side to shimmy through a narrow alleyway. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils. He made it to the other side of the street and held the objects to his nose, breathing them in. Lorena was a romantic. Aaron liked that. 

He spotted his brother-in-law’s house in the distance, and walked further, dipping behind different buildings to avoid being seen. He held himself flat against a cold brick wall as a carriage passed full of chatting people. He wondered where they were headed at this time of night-- if he could jump out from behind a fence and join them.

Aaron dodged a puddle, and lost his grip on the scarf. He swiped it quickly, before it hit the muddy ground. He slipped the letters into his vest pocket-- _near your heart, how sweet--_

That’s what Matt would probably say; he could see his cousin’s teasing face. Aaron laughed to himself and ascended the steps. He glanced up and was relieved to see all the lights still out. 

“Hey!” A harsh whisper came from Aaron’s left, and he jumped. He looked to see a slightly older boy who Aaron recognized as the horse-master of a nearby farm. The boy stepped closer, “What are you doing? Trying to break in?”

“No! I live here,” Aaron replied, hushed. “I recognize you-- Luke, is it?”

Luke nodded, then, “You live here?”

“Yes. And just what the hell are you doing, wandering around my sister’s house at night?” Aaron grew agitated. 

“It’s four am,” Luke responded. He lifted a bucket, “I’m watering the horses and preparing them for the day.”

Aaron paused, realization spreading on his face, alarmed, “It’s four am?”

Luke nodded. 

“Oh, shit,” Aaron swore, “I was gone for much longer than I thought. Reeve is going to be furious…”

Luke eyed the pretty scarf, shimmering blue and purple in the dim light, then Aaron, “...Is that yours?”

“It’s...it belongs to a girl friend of mine,” Aaron balled it up and stuffed it into his bag, “Please, if you see my sister or brother-in-law, don’t tell them you ran into me out here.”

Luke shrugged, pumping the water into one of the buckets, “It’s none of my business. But if they confront me, you know I’m going to have to say something.”

“Please, come on--”

“--You went to see a girl, right?” Luke paused. 

“Yes.”

Above them, a bedroom window glowed orange, signaling that Reeve had awoken and lit a candle. Aaron’s nerves kicked in, and he looked back at Luke. The older boy thought for a second, “I won’t say anything.”

 _“Thank you.”_ Aaron breathed, “I will repay you. I swear to it.”

Inside, the couple began talking. Aaron pushed the door open slowly and shut it with a soft, inaudible click. He walked up the stairs quickly and silently, bouncing lightly on the tips of his toes and slipping into his bedroom. As soon as he shut the door and locked it, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

The night’s events had been worth the trouble. He pulled out Lorena’s scarf and held it to his face. 

He couldn’t get back to sleep if he wanted to, and no doubt Reeve would be knocking on his door in an hour to wake him for his studies. Aaron couldn’t concentrate and knew that if he lay down his mind would spin and replay the night he’d had so vividly his heart would burst. 

His adrenaline kicked in and Aaron made his way over to his desk, pulling out Lorena’s letter. He sat down and spread it open. He scanned it, smile creeping across his mouth. She’d written a pretty poem. Aaron felt his cheeks burn. 

****

Troup’s nature, Hamilton gradually discovered, was one of both gossip _and_ perpetual worry, punctuated only by his insistence on diligently reading every chapter of every book given to him by the professors. He was in a rather somber mood, uncharacteristic, thought Hamilton, while he watched his roommate run a hand through his hair and frown at his parchment.

“You won’t get anywhere by just willing the words to appear, you know, Bobby,” Alexander tried not to sound like a pedant. He looked down at the pieces he was working on, a poorly drawn human skeleton, and an untitled, half-baked political screed.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for final examinations? Save the extracurricular nonsense for when your studies are done,” Troup replied, somewhat haughtily. 

“You don’t know that, Troup. If I can show the school officers what I’ve come up with--”

“--They won’t see a word of your essays if you’re kicked out for failing to finish your courses.” Troup called from his desk, “Besides, I don’t know what Congress has to do with your anatomy class.”

“Body politick,” Alexander lifted his left hand, and then his right, “human body,”

Troup rolled his eyes, “A stretch.” 

“I’ll preach it in the streets,” Hamilton squeezed his quill so tightly he felt it dig into his skin, “They’ll have to hear me.”

“Medicine?”

“No! _This,”_ Alexander waved his side project in his friend’s face. Troup shook his head and went back to his writing.

“I am not joking. If those thoughts are found to have been incubated here, we will both be held accountable.”

Alexander let out a sigh, “For _what?_ They don’t own my mind. As far as they are concerned I am an able student of medicine. _”_

Troup lifted a hand and gestured pointedly to the parchment in his roommate’s hand. After a moment, he clarified, lowering his voice: “I sympathize with your feelings on independence from the British crown, and I daresay a few of our more trustworthy friends do as well, but the powers that be do not--and will not appreciate having harbored a patriot so repugnant to their own feelings towards the matter. Under the guise of _anatomy._ ”

Hamilton could not help but feel some affection for his serious friend, and the ever-present gnawing in his gut that reminded him he and thoughts were not welcome.

_It could have been different._

“Do not worry, Bobby,” Alexander responded, “I will leave this one in a bush for the pigeons to find.”

“Do not take this lightly, Alexander, this will be about more than just insolence,” Troup continued. “You are speaking in favor about a Congress that is, in fact, _illegal._ ”

Alexander shook his head, “I don’t fear expulsion, if that is what you are referring to.”

“I am referring to arrest!”

At this, Hamilton laughed, “You are so fretful, Bobby. Nothing will happen to me. I will use a pen-name.”

“It will be traced back to you.”

“All the better, then,” Alexander replied.

“Why on earth are you picking fights, Alexander? When there are more important, pressing matters?” 

Troup lifted a stack of papers. Hamilton responded by lifting his own writings mockingly. Troup huffed, and then, “Fine. _Fine._ Write the bloody things. But I’m not intervening in any of your fights anymore. Once word gets out that a student at King’s is defending criminal behavior, they’ll come for us, just like the incident at the tavern last week.”

“Oh, not that again, Bobby..”

“I wound up _drenched_ in God knows what, the laughing stock of the entire school for nearly a week, looking a complete fool in front of President Cooper,” Troup trailed off, his face red, “And that was just a tavern brawl about _paper products_. Think what would happen if things got more serious. I am here to get an education. Not start fights in the city.”

Hamilton looked at him. They’d had this argument countless times.

“If I recall, Bobby, it was your wish to see some conflict.”

“I am not so sure anymore, Alex,” Troup responded. His eye caught a gruesome drawing on Hamilton’s desk of a decapitated man. The color had drained from his face.

“No one will listen to an anonymous nineteen-year-old,” Troup tried again. He marked through some lines on his paper, “You might as _well_ fold it up and throw it to the birds.”

Hamilton chafed at his friend’s bluntness. He started at the words he’d written, nearly forty pages of invective, and suddenly felt silly. Quickly, this dissipated into something more righteous. He made his way over to his bed, sat down, and looked around the small dorm room.

It dawned on him-- as we watched his worrisome friend stress over an essay-- a fleeting thought crossed his mind-- it knifed him in the heart.

“I think we are dancing around the subject, Bobby. We both know that King’s College was never the right place for me,” Hamilton started, softly at first. He watched as Troup looked over at him and rolled his eyes.

“Here we go--”

“--I am being very serious, Bobby. I do not belong here. It was an ill-fit from the beginning.”

The familiar waves of dissatisfaction washed over him, and he repeated his own phrasing in his head: _I do not belong here._

_I do not belong with my mother or my brother. I do not belong with my cousin. My boss. My island. My roommate, my college--_

Once again, his dark thoughts were interrupted by Troup, “Once a week we go through this argument. You are here and making the best of it. In a few months’ time you will be able to apprentice under a real doctor, and then you will be able to practice medicine, get married, live your life---”

The edge was gone from his voice, and his friend watched him. Alexander responded, “--If I cannot express myself here, ideologically, without fear of _censorship_ …”

“Think of how hard you worked to get here, Alex.” Troup shut his book and turned in his seat. “You would throw all that away, for some unpublished essays? Wait until you complete your studies. Then have at the papers.”

“By then it will be too late. I will be one voice in one thousand.”

Troup looked at him helplessly, shoulders falling. 


	16. Vindication

“Well, you got your wish,” Troup muttered sarcastically, kicking his shoes off and throwing himself down into his chair. He brushed a spec of ash from his sleeve.

Alexander followed him into the dorm. He ignored the sarcastic comment and looked at himself in the small mirror above their wash basin: his shirt was covered in soot, there was a small tear in his sleeve and a piece of hay had lodged itself in his hair. He picked it out and splashed water on his face, scrubbing. 

Troup went on, “You got your speech in the streets.”

“An incoherent mob burning an effigy of Lord North is not a speech.”

“Well it started out simple enough,” his roommate countered. “You see how quickly things get out of hand. That’s why I’m saying be careful. If Cooper were to find out we’ve been out causing trouble with McDougal and his band of Liberty Boys, or whatever they’re styling themselves--”

Alexander interrupted, “Sons of Liberty, Bobby. For the nineteenth time.”

“You know he’s a pirate, right? McDougal?” Troup went on. “I overheard some of the people talking. He’s a bit unhinged and has a certain disregard for the rules.”

“Well he made some good points…” Alexander responded quietly.

“Really? Because I couldn’t hear them over the screams of terror!”

Hamilton laughed in spite of himself, “Well be that as it may, I want to hear more of what he has to say. Did you know he was twice denied an appointment to the committee that will be petitioning London on New York’s behalf? Twice, Bobby! Once is insult enough but twice--”

“--Was he denied because he’s a criminal?” Troup muttered, fixing his necktie. 

Alexander pretended not to hear him, “What is the point of sending men to petition on our behalf if more than half of them are conservative and don’t agree with what any of us have to say to begin with?”

“I could have told you it would shake out that way.”

“Anyway,” Alexander spoke, “I’m going to hear what McDougal has to say at City Hall tomorrow. I like him.”

“You just like to be _shocked_ ,” Troup countered, opening a book on his desk, “If McDougal got up on stage and did cartwheels for an hour, you’d like that too.”

Hamilton grinned and put his head down, rubbing his eyes. Troup watched him. 

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re...moderately right.” Alexander conceded, smiling. He sat on his bed and opened a chemistry book, bored. He sighed, “The bottom line is, we simply can’t allow men who have no connection to our daily struggles speak _for_ us. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. Take St. Croix, as an example. It exists as a struggling dependency because the British have made it so. They’ve de-fanged it. The people aren’t allowed a say in any matters relating to commerce or governance, and they are paying the price for it.”

“It says all that in your chemistry book, there?” Troup responded wryly, not taking his eye from his own notes, “Incredible.”

“All I am saying is that this little protest he’s called for is a simple way to make our displeasure known without it devolving into...effigies and theatrics.”

Troup turned in his seat, “Let me see the handbill.”

Alexander fished the tiny pamphlet from his pocket: a thin, torn, folded piece of paper covered in crude etchings of soldiers beating civilians, and text that bled together through running, cheap ink. Troup unfolded it, scanning it, exhaling loudly. 

“I don’t know, Alex. This seems...dangerous.”

“I think it might be worth it.”

The conversation ended there, dangling on the edge of a consensus. Hamilton stole one last look at his roommate, who’d busied himself with note-taking, humming a low, inarticulate tune to himself. Alexander settled back against his headboard and tried to focus on the chemistry book, unable to synthesize any of it.

It all seemed so _small_ \--the invisible, theoretical world of chemicals versus the visceral heat from a flame, the smell of sweat and bodies, the sound of screams and terror. There was no contest.

Hamilton could not sleep that night. 

He tossed and turned, the scenes and voices in his head from the day before glowing and pulsating in and out of his consciousness, preventing him from settling. Every little noise startled him: the scratching of a branch on the window, the soft cry of an owl.

The next day his classes went by in a haze. Troup nudged him in the ribs during a particularly embarrassing lecture in which he’d stood up to answer a question from the professor and his brain immediately emptied itself of every piece of information he’s memorized in preparation. Alexander’s cheeks burned as he left the class and he could only partly hear Troup’s gentle chastising of him. 

“You didn’t sleep, did you? It’s that blasted handbill-- Alex, put it out of your mind. There are more important things. Your chemistry professor, Smith… I overheard him talking one day, and--”

“--Bobby,” Alexander turned to him as they made their way back to the dorms at the end of the day, “I know you think you’re helping, but you’re making it all worse.”

“Are you nervous? About the protest at City Hall tonight? You look pale.”

“I know you’re just trying to get me to change my mind, but I’m not,” Alexander brushed past his roommate impatiently, into their dorm, tossing his bag onto his bed. He looked around, “Where is my clean shirt?”

Troup shut the door, “Why bother? It’s going to get covered in mess anyway.”

“Good point.” Hamilton looked at himself in the mirror again, running a hand through his hair. He spun on his foot and faced his friend, “Are you coming?”

Troup faltered, exhaling, “I don’t know.”

“It’s nearly six. Make a decision. Now or never.”

“I just--”

Alexander began counting down from five, stepping closer, “...Five...four…”

“...What if something dreadful happens? There could be guns, Alex. You don’t know this crowd like I do. They don’t care…”

“...Three...two…” Hamilton got louder, cutting him off. 

“...You have to promise me that nothing is going to happen,” Troup interjected. 

_“...One…”_

_“Fine!_ I’ll go,” Troup replied, exasperatedly. Alexander let out a triumphant laugh. His roommate cut him off again, pointing a finger, “But I’m telling you, Alexander. If I get so much as a whiff of violence, I’m leaving.”

Alexander didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He grabbed his friend by the sleeve, and dragged him back down the hallway and into the muggy night. 

He barely heard the quiet protestations. As the pair approached City Hall, the crowd thickened, and Hamilton’s nerves kicked in. He steeled himself. 

“It’s too bloody hot for this,” he heard Troup complain. “Did anyone think to bring water?”

The two students pushed their way through the writhing crowd, toward the front. Alexander quickly realized he was easily the youngest-- and smallest-- person there, and used that to his advantage. Behind him, Troup struggled to keep up, and finally broke free from his grasp when two taller, burly men cut them off from each other. Hamilton didn’t care.

“Alexander!” He heard a familiar voice yell out to him. He turned to see Mulligan, and the guilt of abandoning Troup slid off his shoulders. 

Mulligan clasped his shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, “You’re here! I knew you’d show!”

Alexander relaxed, breaking away from the embrace, “Of _course_.”

“I am going to assume you snuck out,” Mulligan looked down at him with a twinkle in his eye. 

“You could say that.” Hamilton replied, matching his tone. He looked around, “I seem to have lost my friend. He was just behind me--”

“--You mean the poor boy in the back, there, who looks like he’s seen his own death?” Mulligan replied between laughs.

Hamilton turned to see Troup being squeezed between a trio of rough-looking, dirty militia men. He sighed, “Hang on--” and left Mulligan to go rescue his roommate. 

“I think I was robbed,” Troup muttered, searching his pockets. 

“Why on earth would you bring money?” Alexander chastised him. 

Mulligan spoke over the noisy din of the crowd as the two boys approached him, “They’re erecting a stage. Looks a bit shoddy but we’ll see. I wonder who’s going to have the nerve to get up there and address this riot. I mean, besides McDougal.”

“What about you?” Alexander looked up at him.

Mulligan laughed again and shook his head, “Oh, this crowd is tired of my old face. They’ve already heard everything I have to say. They’re going to want fresh blood.”

“Could you _please_ use a different term?” Troup responded weakly, nursing a small bruise on his forearm from being jostled by the larger men. 

“They’ll listen to McDougal, since he arranged the thing,” Mulligan continued, “But after that-- who knows.”

“What else do they need to hear?” Alexander asked, raising his voice over the sound of cheering as McDougal took the stage. Next to him, Troup eyed a man with a torch nervously. McDougal began speaking, his words lost amidst the echoes and calls from the crowd. Alexander estimated that the size had grown from fifty to nearly two-hundred. 

Troup tapped his shoulder, “We need to get out of here before we’re spotted, Alex.”

Mulligan spoke, “I suspect they’re going to want to destroy more property. It’s the only way to make our cause understood.”

Hamilton studied his former benefactor as he explained it all, and his excitement turned dark. He watched the friendly glint in Mulligan’s eye shift from jovial to _hungry--_ something akin to a shark eyeing a school of fish. He felt Troup tug at him again. 

“Alexander, they have clubs…”

Alexander turned his stare from Mulligan back to the stage and the speaker that engrossed him. He swallowed, “This situation won’t get...too violent, will it?”

A deafening cheer cut Mulligan’s answer off-- Hamilton wasn’t certain that his old friend would have answered him clearly even if he’d heard him. It sounded like the roaring of a storm; the loud crash of waves against rock. Something in him clicked. Alexander loosened himself from Troup’s grasp again and used the pumping adrenaline that made his hands shake to push through the churning bodies towards the stage. 

He tripped on a loose cobblestone, and apologized stupidly to an angry, scarred, toothless old man who’s brandished knife flashed dangerously in the light from the torches. 

Alexander barely registered the rippling of laughter from the crowd, climbing up the wooden stairs to the rickety stage where McDougal stood. 

The older man stopped, mid-speech, letting out a hoot of laughter, “Will someone please come get their son? Boy, I think your mother will be wondering why you’re not home for dinner.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Alexander looked around at them, getting a better view. 

McDougal pressed him, “Well? Are you lost?”

The words flew from his head, and Hamilton froze. 

He caught Troup’s astonished gaze from the audience; next to him, Mulligan clapped. 

A high-pitched buzzing in Alexander’s ears obscured the noise from the crowd, and he slowly tore his gaze from his roommate and benefactor, back to McDougal. 

“I agree with you, sir,” he said, timidly. “I wanted to speak...on behalf of the students at King’s College.”

McDougal tilted his head back and laughed, and the crowd followed suit. He spoke again, “I sincerely doubt that.” He looked back at the teenager, “Tell me, did someone dare you to come up here? Are you trying to win a bet?”

Hamilton leveled his stare, “No. I am offering a fresh perspective.”

“Well by all means,” McDougal lifted a hand, widening his eyes cynically, “Do tell us what you think of the Act lately passed in Parliament. I am assuming you’ve read into the subject _extensively_ , in between your nightly prayers and schoolboy’s essays.”

The crowd exploded into another round of riotous laughter. 

Alexander felt his mouth dry up; pushed through it. 

“Well I think it is criminal, actually.”

McDougal widened his eyes sarcastically, “Oh!”

Hamilton blinked, exhaling, turning his attention from the older man to the throng of people, “I speak in favor of Mr. McDougal’s resolutions. I stand with you all--”

“--You’re on a stage!” 

Alexander closed his eyes again, “--I am speaking _metaphorically--_ ”

“What does that mean?” A different voice yelled out.

Alexander steadied himself, clenching his jaw, “The Act to which Mr. McDougal refers has caused our brethren so much suffering...it’s not right. It’s not just.”

“And what do you suppose we do?” A third voice called. Hamilton searched the people again, trying to place it. 

He thought for a moment, then, “I think...all American imports and exports to Great Britain should be halted until the ports in Boston are _reopened_.”

At this, the crowd jeered him. Alexander stepped back, and felt a McDougal’s hand at his back, “I warned you, boy. This isn’t a little coffeehouse _tête-à-tête._ _”_

Alexander shook him off indignantly, whipping his gaze from face to face in front of him, pushing forward with his speech, “Nothing less could check the fraud, power and most odious oppression that would _otherwise_ rise triumphant of what is good, right and just!”

“Austerity measures from the little scholar,” McDougal said, louder. He addressed the crowd, “Are you all willing to suffer for a bit?”

_“We’re already suffering.”_

The nature of the jeering had turned in the blink of an eye. Hamilton swallowed his nerves, dared himself to search each face in the crowd. They seemed to reflect back at him his own doubts, and he faltered. 

****

“So this is your life, then,” Matt drawled, leaning against the side of the house, “Up at five am, study until dinner, eat, study more, pass out, repeat. I can see why you wanted to leave Bellamy’s so bad. This is positively exhilarating.”

Aaron picked up a thick stick and prodded the earth with it, “Don’t remind me.”

“Look, I’m only in town for a week. I’m not going to spend it listening to Reeve tell the same six stories over and over again. If I have to hear about Barber’s Academy one more time--”

“--He misses it, Matt. He likes Elizabethtown.”

“Well then he can go back.”

Aaron shot his cousin a look, “You’re being purposefully obtuse. His life is here now.”

Matt rolled his eyes and indicated they head toward the nearby path, “Come on. Let’s put that walking stick to good use.”

Aaron obliged. The pair was silent for several minutes. Matt shoved his hands in his pockets and chewed his lip in thought, and Aaron stole a glance at him. 

“Alright, out with it. You obviously have something to say, Matt.”

“Fine. I was...wondering… if you had any updates with Lorena.”

Guilt bloomed inside Aaron’s chest. Matt went on.

“She hasn’t written to me in a month, now. She used to write every other day. I don’t know what’s changed,” he muttered. A gust of wind blew loudly between the two boys, and Matt waited until it stopped to continue, “She was very responsive. Now I’m lucky if I get a few sentences.”

“Maybe she’s busy.”

“I _highly_ doubt that.”

Aaron closed his eyes against another gust of wind, steadying each of his steps with the walking stick. 

“Now you’re being quiet,” Matt glanced over at him. “Aaron…”

Aaron winced, and put up a hand, “...Alright, let me explain.”

Matt stopped in his tracks, a look of realization on his face, “Oh, come _on_. Really?”

“Just listen, Matt, let me explain,” Aaron reiterated, facing his cousin. “It was one night--”

“--Damn you,” Matt whined. “You were supposed to make her fall for me, not you! _Goddammit_ , Aaron. First Rebecca, now Lorena--”

“No, listen--”

“--No wonder she’s stopped writing to me. She probably doesn’t have time,” Matt responded crudely, throwing his hands up. He glared at his cousin, “Like moths to a flame, aren’t they.”

Aaron made a face, “Maybe if you didn’t compare her to a bug you’d have more luck.”

“I’d have more luck if you didn’t _insert yourself_ into my business--”

“--You asked me to help craft letters for you!” Aaron replied, exasperated. “I wrote to you about this specifically last Thursday, before you arrived. Did you get the letter?”

Matt thought for a moment, “No. I didn’t.”

“Well, if you did, you would have learned that even after she and I...were intimate...she couldn’t stop talking about you. She gave me a song she wrote for you and I was going to send it to you but you’d since arrived in town, which made it unnecessary.”

“And where is that song now?” Matt pressed him, crossing his arms. 

“I...lost it.”

“Aaron!” 

“She is really enamored with you,” Aaron insisted, pointing at his cousin with the walking stick, “She went on and on about how tall you are.”

Matt laughed grimly, “Well, there’s _one_ thing working in my favor.”

Aaron walked over and put his arm around him, “Don’t be like that. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have come between you two. It was a mistake.”

Matt grunted noncommittal, and Aaron urged them forward further on their walk. He assented and fell in-step. Matt chewed on his cousin’s words for a few silence seconds.

He spoke after a bit, “It’s just not fair. It comes so easy to you.”

“What does?”

“Girls,” Matt muttered. The two boys turned a corner and made their way down a different path. “What do they see in you? I don’t get it. What was that one girl’s name...she practically threw herself at you. Hannah, at the tavern.”

Aaron stiffened. Matt went on.

“I put pen to paper and my brain feels empty. Meanwhile, you just show up at Hyer’s and in two hours you’re lying with--”

“--Matt, enough. Stop complaining.” Aaron cut him off, sounding ruder than he wanted to.

His cousin went on insistently, “How do you do it? Hannah--”

“--Stop talking about her,” Aaron raised his voice, and paused. “I’m serious, Matt. Drop it.”

“What is the big deal?”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Aaron caught up to him. “I was fifteen. It was a drunken mistake. That’s all.”

Matt brushed it off, “Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that bad. You’d have stopped her if it was--”

Aaron cut him off again by swinging the walking stick, and hitting him in the legs. Matt stumbled and yelled. 

“What is your problem?” Matt shouted, hopping on one leg and clutching the other, “Jesus Christ, Burr.”

Aaron tossed the stick down and picked up his pace. Behind him, his cousin struggled to keep up. 

“Aaron...come on!”

“I have to get back. Sally will start to worry. Sorry for hitting you.”

Matt reached out, “Wait...wait!” He grabbed him, and Aaron spun. He went on, “I do not want to spend the next few days fighting with you. I am sorry for upsetting you. Why don’t we just call it even, now?”

Aaron looked around, “Fine.”

“Is it?”

“You’re right. I don’t want to fight. We have precious little time to see each other anymore.” Aaron sighed. “I promise, I will write to Lorena on your behalf, and cultivate her affection for you. Let’s just be content for now.”

Matt picked at a hangnail, “I guess.”

Aaron tried for levity, “I am swearing off any dealings with Cupid. Who wants to be tied down anyway?”

“Some of us don’t have a choice,” Matt replied dryly. “Cupid actively avoids some of us, it seems.”

Aaron went on as if he didn’t hear him, “The wide world is before us, in its entirety.”

“What the holy hell does _that_ mean?”

“There are more opportunities than what’s available in this town.” The two boys headed back toward the Reeves’. “Friendship and camaraderie is more important I think.”

Matt hopped up the steps, “Well there you and I agree.”

****

“Alright. What can you tell me about Harpur, the mathematician.” Alexander plopped down into his desk chair. “I am to meet him tomorrow afternoon for some tutoring.”

Troup frowned, thinking, “Harpur? He must be new. I don’t know the name.”

Alexander scanned a piece of paper, “I wish I knew what to expect. Is he strict? Is he kindly? Will he take pity on me or does he like to embarrass his students?”

“It’s a private lesson, isn’t it?” Troup inquired, pulling an apple from his bag and taking a bite. 

Alexander watched him, ‘Do you have another one of those?”

Troup obliged, handing him a piece of fruit. Alexander took it and muttered thanks, biting into it and speaking with his mouth full, “Yes. It’s private. But I still don’t want to make a fool of myself. It has to be perfect.”

“Nothing is perfect. Just go and be polite and interested. That’s all you can do. Now, let me see the debate speech you’ve prepared for this evening.” Troup finished his apple and tossed it into a bin, “Tonight will be the perfect opportunity for you to hone your skills.”

“Oh…” Hamilton took another bite and set the apple down. He leaned over and dug into a small bag on the floor next to him, and pulled out several sheets. Troup eyed him as he pulled them out one-by-one, each paper making him more and more nervous. 

“Alex...how many sheets--”

Hamilton held up a finger, while he fished the rest of the essay out. He compiled them all and flipped through them, counting. Troup exhaled loudly and walked over, snatching it from him. 

“There has to be fifty pages here!” He turned and stared at his roommate, “Alex, you have ten minutes to speak.”

“I have been thinking, since the speech at City Hall--”

Troup went pale, “Do _not_ bring that up again. I still have nightmares about it.”

“I just thought-- if I could--” Hamilton brought his hands up and clasped them together, “--Consolidate my thoughts and extracurricular essays, I could make my opinions known and impress the debate club, in one fell swoop.”

Troup looked at him, exasperated, lifting the pages, “You’ll never get through this.”

Alexander swallowed, “Listen, Bobby. These newspapers the school has us reading--”

Troup watched his roommate pull several more pamphlets out of his bag. Hamilton stacked them one on top of the other with a soft thud each time, and Troup wondered how he was able to fit so much in the tiny case. 

“--These newspapers they have the students reading. They’re garbage. They’re nonsense.”

“What does that have to do with the debate club?”

“It stands to reason that most of the students in tonight's meeting will have read this drivel,” Alexander reasoned, folding one newspaper out and scanning it rapidly, “So I can argue against some of the articles and both impress and entertain. A two-fold attack.”

“It’s not an _attack_ , Alexander,” Troup turned pale, stepping forward, “Please don’t embarrass me.”

“Look at this,” Hamilton shoved one of the papers at him, “Have you read this? This is what they want the student body studying? ‘ _Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress, Held at Philadelphia.’_ This goes in direct opposition to what McDougal was saying.”

“Alex…” Troup dropped the paper onto his bed. 

Alexander held up another newspaper, “And this fresh idiocy-- listen, ‘tell me not of delegates, congresses committees, mobs, riots, insurrections, associations; a plague on them all. Give me the steady, uniform, unbiased influence of the courts of justice. I have been happy under their protection, and I trust in God, I shall be so again.’” Hamilton stopped, and glared at his roommate, expectant.

Troup pointed at him, “I warned you, Alex, that this would be the case when you first started your studies here, that things were conservative here. You said you were fine with it.”

“This person would have us all...what is he saying? We should sit around like patient dullards waiting for the Crown to sprinkle down some little treats? Like we’re dogs?” Alexander lifted a hand. “And everyone here is reading this and accepting it. Where is the outcry?”

“This is your response? A fifty page diatribe you plan on squeezing into a ten-minute speech?”

“If I can just...boil it down into a few salient points,” Alexander reasoned, standing, “I think it would be beneficial for some of the students to hear an opposing viewpoint. Firstly, because that is the sole purpose of a debate club. Secondly, because it will plant seeds in their minds, from which they can cultivate a more well-rounded argument.”

“I think you might be taking it a bit too seriously--” Troup added.

Hamilton looked at him, “I will not embarrass you. I promise. What time is it?”

“Nearly five. Are you ready to go meet Nicholas?” Troup responded. 

“Yes. Give me my notes.”

“Alexander--”

 _“--Give them to me,”_ Hamilton walked over with his hand outstretched, “I’m speaking on this subject tonight whether you want me to or not. I will be polite and restrained. You will see.”

Troup pursed his lips and handed the pages to his roommate. Alexander smiled and rolled them into a tube, and shoved them into his pocket. He grabbed the door, opened it, and indicated they step out together. 

“The debate club reserves the right to toss you out and bar you from meetings, too…” Troup kept pace with his roommate as they made their way down the hallway, pardoning themselves, slipping past groups of milling students, “It’s right there. In the by-laws. We all vote and if the majority is displeased with your performance, there will be no question. You will be asked to leave.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you listening?”

“No.”

“Alexander!” Troup grabbed his friend on the shoulder. He looked around, making sure they were out of ear shot, “If you break the rules, and upset everyone, I will have no choice but to side with the rest of the group.”

Alexander paused, regarding him, “Do what you must, Bobby.”

In another few minutes, Nicholas joined them, and the trio headed outside and across the courtyard towards the meetinghouse. 

****

Hamilton felt Troup’s nervousness radiating off of him in waves. 

“Would you just calm down?” Alexander hissed. The pair sat towards the back of the small room on an uncomfortable bench. Troup twisted in his seat. 

“You’re trying too hard.”

Alexander recoiled. 

Troup went on, “You demanded you speak last. That’s presumptuous. Only the most senior members of the club get to speak last. I thought I told you about that?” 

Alexander dropped his voice, “In the even that my speech runs a bit...longer--”

“--No!”

“It would be beneficial that I do not cut into anyone else’s time,” Hamilton talked over his friend. 

“Are you two listening?” An older student, Thomas, called out to them, drawing attention. Troup nodded vigorously. Thomas narrowed his eyes, “It would be _beneficial_ if you two listened so you will be better prepared to craft an argument against what is being said.”

“Yes, of course. Apologies,” Troup mumbled, cheeks red.

Alexander added, “I have actually crafted a different argument, sir. Not in response to anyone here. But my own thoughts.”

Thomas eyed him, then lifted a hand to the front of the meeting room, “You’re up.”

“Fantastic,” Alexander grinned, pushing himself up off the bench. He quieted his nerves; cracked his knuckles. He made his way to the podium at the head of the classroom and spun around to look at the blank faces of his peers. 

Hamilton scanned them: twenty other students in all, scattered here and there in seats and benches. He glanced at the clock-- _thirteen minutes until the meeting ends, not ten._ He gripped the podium like a pulpit. 

“Hello everyone!”

Several students muttered a response. 

Alexander cleared his throat, “I have not had the pleasure of meeting all of you individually. My name is Alexander Hamilton.”

Thomas interrupted from his seat behind a desk in a corner, “You don’t need to introduce yourself, just start speaking.”

“Very well,” Alexander kept his smile in place. “I am standing before you today to argue not against any one person individually, but against an idea. Or, rather, the trace _beginnings_ of an idea. I am certain you all are familiar with what has been lately printed in our venerable newspapers--”

He unfurled one of the papers from his pocket, holding it aloft. A few students raised their eyebrows, several looked on, mildly interested. 

“The article is entitled,” Hamilton took a deep breath, and read from the page, “‘ _Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress, Held at Philadelphia, Sept 5, 1774_ ’. Well. I am here to give _my_ free thoughts on the matter.”

Thomas perked up, “Alexander, rhetorical arguments require structure. Not free-speaking, unfocused thoughts.”

“Oh, do not worry. I have notes,” Alexander replied, unfolding the other set of papers. 

In the back of the room, Troup sunk in his seat. 

Alexander went on, “The purpose of this diatribe, written by and for the farmers of this colony, was to exhibit the errors of Congress, confute their reasonings, and lay bare the fatal tendencies of their non-importation, non-exportation and non-consumption measures. Our Farmer concludes by stating the ‘only means’, as he says it, for preserving and securing our present ‘happy constitution’, are to allow the Crown to continue their--”

“--Alexander,” Thomas cut in again, while a few more students snickered, “It would be appropriate for you to first understand the audience to which you speak.”

“I am just making an argument,” Hamilton retorted. 

Thomas struggled, trying to be both tactful, and make himself understood, “That newspaper that you have brought is...a _favorite_ , of the faculty here.”

“Well then they should be happy that one of their students has read it and cared enough to formulate arguments against it,” Hamilton leaned on the podium, “Doesn’t that make the argument stronger? If it can stand up to criticism?”

Thomas shook his head, “Proceed.”

“In this speech, I will endeavor to prove that the plan of opposition concerted by our Congress is perfectly consonant with justice and sound policy. And it will--in all human probability--secure our freedom against the assaults of our enemies.”

 _“Alexander,”_ Thomas interrupted him again, to a chorus of laughter from the other students. Troup covered his face. Thomas went on, “This is inappropriate rhetoric for an extracurricular debate club. We have no enemies. We are students at one of the finest universities in the commonwealth.”

“I am talking about the country at large,” Alexander put a hand flat on the podium.

“What country? Great Britain? You would have us fighting ourselves?” Thomas replied. 

Alexander closed his eyes and held up a finger, “No, no, no, you misunderstand--”

“My father is a British soldier, living in this city,” one of the students whom Alexander knew to be named Paul, called out. He went on, “You want violence instigated against him?”

“No, of course not. What I mean is,” Hamilton felt his mouth grow dry, “The congress have petitioned his majesty for the redress of certain grievances-- _humbly._ They’ve assured him of our loyalty, as American subjects. There was no violence called for. But the bottom line is-- there is an _earnest_ desire for the termination of the attachment to Great Britain, and if that ends in war, well--”

“--It won’t end in war,” Nicholas cut in, “No one here seriously wants that.”

Hamilton bit the inside of his cheek. 

Another student raised a hand, interjecting, “American subjects have made it disgraceful to Great Britain to comply with Congress’ demands, because they are proposed in a hostile manner.”

Alexander turned to him, adrenaline kicking in. He counted off on his fingers, “I will not even _begin_ to speak on the impolicy on the part of Great Britain. I could produce an entire litany of considerations-- their reticence to accommodate us, their attempt to enforce our submission by cutting off trade.”

“So? That’s their right,” A third boy cut in. 

Thomas stood, raising his voice, “I think we are getting too deep in the mire, here. Alexander, wrap it up.”

“Fine, fine,” Alexander flipped through the notes in front of him while the other members of the club shuffled and muttered under their breaths. 

“Do you have a specific point you would like to prove?” Thomas insisted. 

Alexander sighed, looking up, “Unless you all want to live like pets-- happy idiots in cages, never truly free-- you would do well to heed Congress and support them in their endeavors. I would caution you, again and again, to beware of the men who advise you to forsake them. Our representatives, Congress, have taken the wisest course to settle our differences. If you separate from them, _you will repent your folly as long as you live.”_

“Worse than a bloody reverend,” Paul rolled his eyes and mumbled to another student to his left. Several more tittered, and Alexander felt his face burn. 

“I’m sorry, but this is all rather important. You may be happy sticking your ugly head in the sand and ignoring it all but most of us don’t have that luxury,” Hamilton spat. 

Paul regarded him, “You’re the one going on about merchants and tradesmen. What the hell do you know?”

“I live here, don’t I?” Alexander shouted. 

“The schemes of this so-called continental congress will ruin the colonies,” Paul stood, his own temper flaring, “They are not considering your interest.”

Alexander laughed, unfriendly, stepping down from the podium. He avoided Troup’s gaze, who sank even further in his seat. 

“They are betraying you, and turning you all into rogues, rebelling against the Crown,” Paul added spitefully.

Hamilton spun on his foot, spitting, “The only rogue here is _you.”_

“Boys!” Thomas shouted from behind the desk, slamming his hand down.

Paul glared at Alexander, sneering, “You may live here, but this isn’t your home.”

Before he could think, Alexander swung at him, landing a punch directly on his cheek. He swore inarticulately, and felt Troup’s hands on him, pulling him back. He only halfway heard Thomas’ yells, and some snickering from the other students, before he was dragged back to his seat. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Paul yelled, touching his face where he’d been hit. “What is wrong with you?”

“That is enough,” Thomas strode over and pulled Hamilton’s notes from him, folding them and shoving them into his bag. He regarded the room coldly, and raised his voice, “This was an embarrassment. _Both of you should know better._ Mr. Troup, please escort your roommate back to his dorm where he can think about the childish scene he’s caused. This meeting is over.”

Alexander blinked and settled his breath, letting Troup take the lead, muttering inarticulate apologies. His roommate chastised him the entire way back to the dormitories.

“You have to hold your temper! They just want to get under your skin, they’re ruffians, sometimes…” Troup’s voice trailed in and out of his ears, though Hamilton couldn’t concentrate on them. He went on, indistinct, “...Thomas is fair-minded, he’ll let you back in after a probationary period, no doubt. Paul spoke out of turn, to be certain, but between you and me, he had it coming…”

“Bobby,” Alexander pushed the door open and dropped onto his bed, “Just let it be.”

“Well I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’, but--”

“Yes, yes. You warned me about the types of opinions that would be present. Fine.” Alexander fell back and draped his arm over his eyes. 

He lay there for several seconds, thankful that Troup had decided not to press the issue. Hamilton listened to his friend slide a few books from the shelf and settle into his own bed. His mind wandered, and his chest hurt. 

****

Aaron looked up from the table; the _thwack_ of a newspaper disturbing him from his breakfast. Reeve stood above him, watching, expectant.

“...Yes?” The teenager raised his eyes.

“Have you read that?” Reeve pointed to the paper.

Aaron indicated to his bowl, “I am eating.”

“You’ve been awake since four and it’s nearly eight. Pick up the pace, lazy. There’s much to discuss today.”

Aaron silently despaired as his tutor pulled out a chair and sat beside him. Reeve went on, touching the paper, “There was lately published an essay called _A Full Vindication of the Measures of the Congress_ , in that paper among others-- I thought you would have added these to your studies. I told you to pay attention to the papers and read as many as you could.”

“That’s from New York. We’re in Connecticut.”

“Do not be smart,” Reeve hid a smile, “You were to write to our friends in New York and ask them to send you these things so that you may have a more well-rounded idea about what is going on.”

Aaron eyed the paper again.

“This essay is superbly written. Though I cannot be certain of its authorship, the rumor is that it came from one of the students at King’s. That is what Livingston seems to think,” Reeve went on, unfolding the paper, “Between you and I, I think he secretly hopes it was Henry that wrote it. But this prose is beyond the poor boy.”

“What do you want me to do with it?” Aaron took a bite of bread. 

“Read it, synthesize it, and sculpt a response. An opposing argument.”

Burr leaned back in his seat, holding his hand out, “Let me see.”

He took the paper from the older man, and scanned the page, picking out words and phrases that immediately colored his mind: _blood, interest, mutual protection._

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, sorry. Read and synthesize. I will start after breakfast.” 

Reeve shook his head, “You will start now.”

Aaron turned the page over and over, shoulders sagging at the length, “Livingston said a student wrote this? Was it an assignment?”

“No. Some of us take initiative on our own to make our voices heard,” Reeve responded wryly. “You will pretend this is a lawyer’s argument, and you will write an opposing opinion. Pretend to be someone else.”

At this, Burr looked up at him again. 

Satisfied with his assignment, Reeve tapped the table and stood, “I will leave you to it, then. Please have something to show me by the end of the day.”

Aaron watched his tutor disappear from the kitchen, leaving him with the avalanche of words. 

He shook the paper out again, and tried to focus on it. The words blurred, punctuated only by the occasional, scintillating barb. Burr picked the thorns out one by one.

_Lawless hand of tyranny..._

Aaron imagined a hand throttling his neck; slapping him in the face. 

_Ravish our liberty from us..._

A smile crept across his face. Aaron studied the paper as he made his way back down the hallway towards the stairs, locking himself in his room. He never took his eyes from the essay, sitting down at his desk and pulling out a quill to underline his favorite parts. 

Aaron decided this was almost _certainly_ written by a boy his age. 

He dipped the quill in the inkwell, another bit of invective catching his eye. _Synthesize, Burr._

“It is no easy matter to make any tolerably exact estimate of the advantages that accrue to Great-Britain, Ireland and the West-Indies from their commercial intercourse with the colonies, nor indeed is it necessary. Every man acquainted with the extent of our trade must be convinced it is the source of immense revenues to the parent state…” Aaron read to himself, under his breath.

It seemed, Aaron gathered, that the boy who’d written this wanted a separation from Great Britain, and spoke on behalf of all members of society, assuring them that yes, it would be difficult for a time, but we must soldier on--

“Easy for you to say,” Aaron muttered, “Holed up in a college, no doubt.” 

He was interrupted by a shout from outside--Aaron set the document aside and watched as a group of men only a few years older than him gathered in front of a large, stately house in the distance. He stared from the ensuing scene, back to the paper.

He dutifully began crafting a counterargument to present to Reeve, shutting and locking the window in an attempt to keep the noise out. 

The writer had been organized enough for him to see the train of thought-- to follow the course of the argument-- but the _words…_ Aaron closed his eyes and laughed again. 

“An elegant simplicity of language is what _everyone_ should strive to obtain, regardless of subject.” He said to no-one. 

As if on cue, an incoherent swear rang out from the crowd outside, and the rhythmic slam of a club against brick.

Aaron shook his head, trying again to concentrate. It was impossible; what sounded like a gunshot rang out in the early morning air, and Burr jumped, briefly looking up. 

His gaze bounced excitedly from word to word, searching for one in particular. 

He read aloud again, finding it excitedly and adding emphasis, “Those who ridicule the resistance America might make to the _military_ force of Great-Britain, and represent its humiliation as a matter most easily achieved, betray either a mind clouded by the most irrational prejudices, or a total ignorance of human nature.”

Aaron’s chest swelled at this, and he smiled, imagining the passionate skirmishes.

Another screech interrupted him again, and he slammed the paper down, heading back toward the window. He threw it open, and saw that the small crowd had grown in numbers, bigger than it had been several weeks ago when he’d described a similar scene to Matt. Gleaming metal pistols caught the light from the morning sun and he squinted. 

He stared back at his desk. Aaron bit his lip and threw himself back down in his seat, grabbing the quill and underlining the next phrase-- _However, it must be the wish of every honest man never to see a trial._

He read on. 

_It is impossible but that a suspension of trade with Great Britain for any time must introduce beggary and wretchedness, both in England and Ireland..._

“Who _are_ you?” Burr paused his writing, gaze landing on the next sentence. He read it over three times, each time coming to a surer and surer conclusion. 

_...And as to the West Indies, they could not possibly subsist without us. I am the more confident of this, because I have a pretty general acquaintance with their circumstances and dependencies._

A soft realization came over him. He closed his eyes and sat back, “Ah…”

Aaron was suddenly hit with a new zeal to dissect the rest of the essay. He set his quill down and took it to his bed, fluffing a pillow and sitting against it, back pressed against the headboard. He scanned the sentences over and over, sliding down slowly so that he was eventually on his back. He held the paper aloft, above him, murmuring the prose.

_“...She would be laid open to the attacks of foreign enemies. Ruin, like a deluge, would pour in from every quarter. After lavishing her blood and treasure to reduce us to a state of vassalage, she would herself become a prey to some triumphant neighbor.”_

He put the paper down, stared at the ceiling, and fought a grin, _“Well_ then.”

Burr paused again, and picked up where he left off, fingers tracing the ink, “I know it’s you, Little Hamilton.” 


	17. Medicine

The trio of friends stood outside the coffeehouse, speaking low.

“You came within a hair’s breadth or expulsion,” Nathaniel said, handing Alexander a letter. “Kind of impressive, frankly.”

Alexander took it and scanned it quickly, “Did Cooper say my name specifically?”

Troup chewed a nail, looking at both of the other boys. Nathaniel answered, “No, not specifically. But he’s going to start doing dorm inspections, to make sure none of us are hiding any radical texts or books. It’s feeling more and more like a prison. Like Cooper’s fortifying King’s against some ill-defined storm.”

Hamilton sighed and let his hand fall to his side, paper clutched in a fist, “This is utterly absurd. They can’t control how we think, for God’s sake.”

“Cooper is terrified of another City Hall fiasco, I’ll bet.” Troup reasoned. 

“McDougal isn’t stupid enough to have his mob run up on the college,” Alexander looked at his roommate, “He knows he needs to play nice with the student body.”

“Right. He knows the youth are the easiest to recruit, and the most energetic,” Nathaniel added. 

“Not to mention-- New York is still more friendly to the British, anyway,” Alexander concluded, bringing the paper back up and reading it again. “What am I going to tell Ned? He’s so excited to see us.”

“I’ll wager he already knows about it all. When’s he due back from Edinburgh?” Troup asked. 

At this, a group of elderly men exited the coffee house, talking amongst themselves. The three teenagers stepped to the side. Nathaniel interjected, “Now’s our chance to get a table. Looks like the place is clearing out.”

“Thank God,” Alexander muttered, looking up at the grey, threatening sky. 

The trio pushed their way inside, and quickly staked out the only empty table in the entire room: a tiny booth at the back. They skirted several clusters of noisy, animated patrons. As they slid into their seats, a low rumble of thunder shook the windows, momentarily obscuring the noise of the chattering clientele. 

“I can almost guarantee Ned’s as radicalized as we are, given that he’s surrounded himself with Scots for the past few months,” Troup continued wryly. “They hate the English more than we do.”

“I suppose,” Hamilton sighed. He accepted a dish of tea from the waiter. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I’m worried he’s changed.”

“We’ve all changed,” Nathaniel responded off-handedly.

Troup sipped his own drink, nodding, looking around. Then, “God, this place is busy. You’d think it was the only establishment for miles.”

“Oh, this isn’t busy,” Nathaniel eyed his two friends, “Just wait until the sun goes down.”

“We can’t stay here that long,” Alexander studied a menu, “I’ve got too much to do.”

“You’re going to want to stay,” Nathaniel insisted, a dark smile crossing his features. 

Troup’s shoulders sagged, “What is that look on your face? What is this place, Nate? Where have you brought us?”

“This is a perfectly respectable coffee house,” Nathaniel reasoned, widening his eyes, “It’s the clientele that you have to worry about. Now, I’m just repeating what my roommate mentioned to me. A few blocks over is Robinson Street.”

Alexander’s interest piqued, “...I’ve heard of it.”

“Some of the old sailors call it Holy Ground.”

Troup shook his head, interrupting, “No. I know this story, and I don’t believe the rumors.”

“What story?” Alexander gave his full attention to Nathaniel. 

He put his palm flat on the table, and dropped his voice, “Best prostitutes in the entire city.”

“Nate, for God’s sake,” Troup cut in, “That’s an ugly rumor. Is this why you brought us here?” He turned to Alexander, “He’s been on about this ‘Holy Ground’ business for the past month. He’s been trying to get me to visit with him--”

“--Just to see,” Nathaniel defended himself. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’m just curious. Aren’t you?”

“No.” Hamilton said flatly.

“See?” Troup indicated to his roommate, “Alex understands. We need to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We can’t be fraternizing with whores…”

Alexander closed his eyes briefly at the words; let the voices of his friends slip from the forefront of his mind and blend into the din of the conversations around them. His cheeks burned, scanning the menu more intently, as though it was the most interesting pamphlet in the world. 

“...In any case, you can’t sneak her into your dorm. That’s what I'm saying. Right, Alex?” 

Hamilton snapped out of the reverie as Troup nudged him. 

“What?”

“Nathaniel thinks he can sneak a prostitute into his bedroom without anyone noticing,” Troup scoffed. “Idiocy, pure and simple. If I’d known this was to be the goal of tonight’s gathering I would have just stayed in.”

“Peter is out for the semester. I have the dorm to myself. No one is going to know,” Nathaniel reasoned. 

“Someone will find out. Cooper has spies everywhere--”

“--Spies?” Nathaniel laughed. “Now I _know_ you’re insane, Bobby.”

“And what do you think the random dorm checks are for?” Troup turned pink.

“Alex, you’re too quiet. The tea can’t be that good. Tell Bobby he’s worrying too much. Rachel and I won’t get caught if we’re careful,” Nathaniel smiled at him, shaking his head.

Alexander felt the hot liquid travel down his throat slowly, as if it were a solid lump of burning coal, “Not if you’re careful, I suppose.”

Troup threw his hands up, “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. You can stay here and wait for your Rachel if you want, but as soon as the sun dips below the horizon, I’m leaving. Alex, I think you should consider leaving, too.”

Nathaniel cut in, “No way. Alex has already proven he likes to cause trouble. He’s going to stick around to see what kind of trouble he can get in. Rachel specifically asked for me.”

“I don’t believe it,” Troup insisted. 

“She did. I was walking across the street a few weeks ago, and she caught my eye, and told me she liked the look of me, and to come visit her--”

“--She wants to make money,” Hamilton cut in quietly. 

“See?” Troup added smugly, “She doesn’t really like you. She’s using you, Nate. She wants a quick buck.”

“I’ll give her a quick _buck_ ,” Nathaniel replied, laughing into his drink.

“You’re foul,” Troup turned red. 

“Excuse me for just a moment, would you?” Hamilton put the menu down and stood, squeezing himself out of the booth.

Troup looked up, “Where are you going?”

“I just need some air. It is a bit stuffy in here,” Alexander said quickly. 

He left the crowded, warm coffeehouse for the chilly, wet streets. The rain came down in mists, just enough to soak him almost immediately. He stepped around the corner of the building, leaning against the brick. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, overcome. 

He tried to avoid the stares of the pedestrians, who walked past, glancing at him. 

A stiff wind came through the thin alley and cooled Alexander’s cheeks, pulling him from the depths of the miserable memories. He steeled himself again, running a hand through his hair. 

_This will not do._

Moments later, he was scooting back into the booth under Troup’s suspicious gaze. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

“Just fine, Bobby,” Alexander replied, a bit too eagerly. “I’ve decided to stay.”

Nathaniel clapped, and Troup’s shoulders sagged as he put his head in his hands. 

“You won’t be disappointed, Alex,” Nathaniel went on.

“As if you know from experience! You’re talking about a prostitute who’s smiled at you once,” Troup shot back. He stole a glance outside, sky darkening, “I swear you’re more desperate than a roadside beggar. You don’t have to pay for _attentions_ , you know. Just go up and talk to the proper girls, in the city. There are plenty of them from good families.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Alexander interjected. “I’ve yet to see you speak to a woman outside of your own mother.”

Troup sunk in his seat, and Nathaniel laughed. 

“I’m just saying,” Troup replied weakly, somewhat hurt, “This isn’t the way Kings would want their students to behave.”

“They also want us prostrate in front of His Majesty,” Hamilton responded quickly, to another laugh from Nathaniel. 

Troup let out a frustrated sigh, gathering his things, “You know what, Alexander? Fine. Stay and cause a riot with some prostitutes. But if Cooper shows up and asks where you two are, don’t ask me to lie for you, because I won’t.”

Alexander stood up, moving to allow his roommate to exit the booth. Troup turned to his two friends, “I’ll give you one last chance.”

“Go, if you think you’re so much better than us!” Nathaniel called from his position in the corner. 

Alexander looked away; Troup huffed, “Very well. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, Alex? That is, if you aren’t stabbed by a pimp tonight.”

“Bobby, don’t be like that--” Hamilton looked at his friend again. Troup turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd toward the door.

“I love Bobby, but he’s not...cut out for this kind of thing,” Nathaniel remarked. 

“He’s not that bad,” Alexander said softly, “Just a bit sheltered, that’s all.”

He felt an arm on his shoulder; turned to see Nathaniel, “Come on. They say there’s a back room, behind the stairs, where the girls hang out. Let’s see if we can find it.”

Alexander took one last look at the front door, and then allowed himself to be led back through the throngs of men. 

****

The bitter wine burned Alexander’s tongue, and it took effect immediately. He took small sips, having been offered a glass of it from a nameless, pretty face, unsure if it was paid for or if he’d be offered another once he finished it.

Nathaniel was right. The day crowd disappeared as soon as the sun went down and was gradually replaced with different sorts of creatures. Alexander closed his eyes and listened to the off-tune music filtering in from some different back room. The coffee house didn’t look that big from the outside. 

“Oh, you’re a pretty one.”

A woman some years older slid into the seat next to him, and dragged her nails through his hair.

“I’m just here with a friend,” Alexander moved his head away from her. 

“You’re almost done with that wine. Do you want another?” She asked, pulling a loose string from his threadbare shirt. She studied him, and Alexander gave her a brief glance: full lips, clear skin, bright eyes. He blushed and turned his head away again. She went on, “It’s free.”

Hamilton sighed, handing her the glass. She took it, smiling broadly. 

“You can’t just come into a place like this and sulk in the corner. Your friend seems to be enjoying himself,” the woman’s voice faded as she walked to a nearby table, poured him another glass with a small clink, and then resumed her spot next to him. She inclined her head to Nathaniel.

Hamilton accepted the drink and studied his friend: deep in a passionate, open-mouthed embrace with a dark-haired girl of a similar age. He blushed again and turned his head, suddenly ill. 

“My name is Anne,” the woman went on, trying to meet his gaze, “And you are…?”

“Alexander.”

“Well, Alexander, I would think a boy as handsome as you would be enjoying yourself a bit more.” Anne adjusted herself against the bench, tucking her legs beneath her. 

Alexander inhaled, bringing the alcohol to his lips; the faint smell of rose blossoms. Anne put her fingers against his cheek. 

“Are you sick? Your face is red.”

“It’s warm in here.”

Anne leaned in, “Well then why don’t we go somewhere cooler? The night is beautiful. Do you like to take walks and study the stars?”

At this, Hamilton looked at her. Her face split into a wider grin. 

“So that’s it. You’re just a romantic.”

Alexander took another sip, “The wine was free but you are not.”

“Oh,” Anne cooed, “You’re a sharp young thing. I like that.”

“That was cruel. I am sorry.” Hamilton offered. He spun the liquid in his glass in tiny circles, studying the way it reflected in the dim light. He bit his tongue. 

Anne dropped her voice, playfully, “Are you a student at King’s? I promise I won’t tell on you. And neither will your friend, I’d wager. He’d implicate you both.”

Alexander sighed again, and turned to her, “I do not want to be rude, but I do not have money for you. I’m afraid your efforts here are useless. You are...toiling in unfertile soil.”

She studied his face, expression softening, “I doubt that.”

“Would you like me to turn out my pockets?”

Anne’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she brought her mouth to Alexander’s ear, “If you are _inexperienced_ , I am happy to provide my services for free.”

Hamilton pulled back again, “I’m not a virgin.”

Several of the patrons nearby overheard their chatter, and chuckled at them, turning to glance, curiously. Alexander steadied himself again, embarrassed. Anne laughed softly. 

“Of course not. I bet you’ve broken many hearts where you’re from.” Anne waited, then, “...And...where is it you’re from?”

Hamilton dug a nail into his thumb. 

“New York.”

“You don’t _sound_ like you’re from New York,” Anne replied wryly. 

At this, Alexander watched as Nathaniel stood, grabbing the dark-haired girl by her hand, and pulling her up another set of stairs. His eyes followed them until they disappeared. Anne touched his leg. 

“Where are you _really_ from?”

He turned and looked at her again, her eyes intent. Something flickered behind them. 

“St. Croix.”

She nodded, searching him, “Was it...your choice, to come here?”

A group of men to their right erupted into laughter at a joke, and the women that stood around them screamed and clapped. Alexander’s thoughts felt thick and stupid; he dragged his gaze from the loud group of people back to Anne, who still stared at him, expectant. 

“Yes. I wanted to leave,” he answered. Hamilton shot back the rest of his wine. 

“Take her upstairs, boy! There are plenty of rooms!” 

An indistinct voice came from one of the drunken, laughing men, and Alexander’s face burned again. 

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Anders?” Anne stood up, putting her hands on her hips. “My friend Mary is still waiting on last week's payment, by the way. Or are you too drunk and insolvent to even manage a few shillings to a barmaid?”

The men roared again, and Anders, sufficiently embarrassed, skulked back to his table, glaring daggers at his friends. 

Alexander watched Anne dress them. She caught his eye, holding out a hand, “Come. They’re not going to leave us alone.”

He placed his glass down and took her hand, and she led him up the same flight of stairs Nathaniel had used. Leaving the crowded dining room had an immediate sobering effect. They made their way into the darkness of the stairwell, to the landing, down the hallway, each step colder than the one before it. 

Anne led them to her bedroom, and shut the door. 

“I already told you, Anne. I can’t pay,” Alexander whispered, ashamed. 

Anne put her arm around him again, “Perhaps I just want company? Perhaps I wanted to get away from those drunken fools?”

Alexander looked around at the woman’s small room, and wondered if all that it encompassed was everything to her name. A tiny trunk of clothes, a small dressing table with a cracked mirror, a slim shelf holding rows upon rows of identical books. Hamilton frowned, walking over to it and touching them. 

“What are these?”

Anne raised her eyebrows and sighed, “Logbooks, if you can believe. I’m the only one of the girls who can both read and count so I’m in charge of making sure the stock room is kept full.”

Alexander tilted his head, squinting at the words on the spine. One for each month, over the years. He dragged his finger along them, stopping at 1768. 

He felt Anne’s presence behind him, hands on his lower back, “You’re not interested in inventory matters, are you? There are much more interesting things to talk about.”

He closed his eyes; the jolt of pleasure at her massage hitting him between his legs and at his fingertips. Hamilton closed his eyes.

“Why don’t you join me on the bed?” Anne whispered, breath hot on his neck, “It’s much more comfortable there.”

As if in a trance, Alexander found himself being laid down; Anne’s soft body on top of him. He responded, numb, unsure if it was the alcohol or something more-- her hands searched him and touched him, and he froze.

“What’s wrong?” She whispered.

“Nothing...I’m not…”

“You won’t get caught, Alexander. I will make sure of it.” She touched him again, and Alexander _wanted_ it-- every nerve in his body did-- but his mind spun too quickly to focus on the feeling spreading across his skin. 

“I _can’t.”_

He heard the humiliation in his own voice and it broke him, and Alexander pushed her off and sat up, staring unfocused in front of him. Anne followed suit.

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” she whispered again. 

Hamilton felt her eyes on him and he squeezed his shut, wetness seeping in like waterlogged wood. 

“What’s the matter?” Anne asked. “I didn’t mean...if I hurt you, I--”

“--It’s nothing,” Alexander muttered, gripping the edge of the mattress so tight his knuckles grew white in the darkness. 

“Would you like me to get you some water?”

Hamilton broke his stare from the undefined spot in front of him; the cold, splintering floor. The cheap, blurry glass of the window. The shelf and the rows upon rows of identical books, unending, stretched out for eternity--

“--Can I just sleep here tonight?”

Anne leaned back, somewhat surprised, “Just...sleep?”

Hamilton nodded, a tiny, brief movement. 

“I suppose,” Anne said softly, grasping his arm, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. I just need sleep,” Alexander responded, laying back on the pillow. Behind him, Anne situated herself into a comfortable position, and wrapped her arms around him. 

****

Matt had been gone for weeks. Aaron’s eyes shot up from his paper to a calendar nearby, counting down the days until his next visit. In the stuffy, boring, silent house of his sister and brother-in-law, it might as well have been years. 

He finished the last sentence on the notes he was taking and slammed the book, tossing the pen aside. 

He rubbed his eyes. 

He’d done a good job of avoiding trouble for the past six days, but it gnawed at him. Aaron stood and pushed his chair in, grabbing a light coat from the back of his chair. He stepped out of his bedroom.

“Hello?” Aaron called out. “Sally?”

“They’ve gone out,” Came an unfamiliar voice from the parlor downstairs. Aaron looked over the landing. Luke looked back up at him, “They left an hour ago.”

“Where’d they go?”

Luke shrugged, “Not sure, sir. They just wanted to get out.”

Aaron sighed, muttering under his breath, “They could have at least said something to me.”

“Are you going somewhere, sir? I can fix up the horses.” Luke called out again. 

Aaron made his way quickly down the stairs, and came face-to face with the horse master, “I think I might go visit a lady friend. When did they say they’d be back?”

Luke hitched up a bucket of water he was carrying, “I heard Mr. Reeve mention visiting some people in the next town over, some miles up the road. I’d say not for a few hours yet.” He eyed Aaron, “...Not sure how much time you’ll need.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Aaron replied. 

“Nothing. Just some talk around town. Never mind.” Luke lifted the bucket again, and made his way through the back of the house towards the stables. 

Aaron stared at his shoes, then back at Luke, who disappeared out the back door. He followed the other man. 

“Wait...wait!” 

The pair paused in front of the barn. Luke set the bucket down. Aaron eyed him again. 

“What have you been hearing about me?”

Luke looked around and sighed. He opened the barn door and picked up the bucket again, making his way to one of the horses, “They talk about how you… live too _loosely_ , I suppose. I overheard a man talking about how you broke his daughter’s heart or something. I wasn’t involved in the conversation, just passing by. Would you hand me that brush?”

He pointed to a nearby shelf. Aaron grabbed the brush and gave it to Luke, frowning, “How on earth do the townspeople know about my private affairs?”

“Well...you’re not exactly secretive about it. I mean...just last month I myself caught you sneaking out,” Luke reasoned. The horse shook its head, seemingly in agreement. Aaron’s stomach dropped. 

“How many people know?”

Luke shrugged, “Like I said. Just gossip.”

“Well it’s none of their fucking business.”

“Whoa…” the older boy stopped brushing and turned to Aaron, “There’s no need to be upset. They’ll have moved on to some other topic soon enough. I just think that maybe, if you’re going to keep doing what you’re doing, you should be more careful about it. That’s all.”

“I’m no different than any other boy my age,” Aaron shot back. “What about you?”

Luke sighed, “Not all of us are as lucky with girls as you are.”

Aaron followed him further into the barn, “You mean to tell me that if you had the chance to go visit a girl you were pursuing romantically, you wouldn’t?”

“Like I said, not all of us can.”

Aaron paused, studying the older boy. Luke silently brushed the horse, disappearing behind it. 

After a beat, the older boy let out a laugh to himself, shaking his head, “You _are_ off.”

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek. He lifted his arm and grabbed an exposed beam, “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know me at all and they’re petty. It’s been like this ever since I came back from Bethlehem. They all talk.”

“They talk about your grandfather.”

“I know,” Aaron responded, quickly. “Let me guess: ‘the boy is a nuisance. He’s trouble. He’s nothing like his family, his parents would be disappointed’--”

“--More like, ‘if I ever see Burr sneaking around my daughter’s window again I’ll put a bullet through his spine.’”

“I don’t sneak around windows!”

Luke stopped and watched the younger boy, exhaling tiredly, “Who were you on your way to see? The girl with the scarf?”

Aaron sighed again, caught, “You mean Lorena. No. A different girl.”

“Can’t even keep them straight,” Luke went back to brushing, shaking his head and chuckling softly.

“Alright. Fine,” Aaron stiffened, “But you can’t say you wouldn’t take advantage of opportunities if they arose, right?”

The two boys were silent for several seconds; the horse between them let out a soft breath, making white clouds in the chilly air. Luke scratched his head and stepped back to look at his handiwork. 

“You owe me, you know. For not exposing you that night I caught you sneaking into the house at four am,” Luke began, dipping the brush back into the bucket to clean it. He lifted it back out and tapped it against a beam, shaking the excess water off. Aaron waited. 

“You’re good at writing, and talking to girls, right?” Luke stared at him. 

Aaron turned pink, “...It’s been said.”

Luke put the brush back on the shelf, and pulled out a long stretch of cloth, draping it over the horse’s back. He rubbed it’s neck, studying the ground, “Maybe you could help me talk to a girl in town.”

“How so?”

“What I mean is…” Luke struggled, suddenly embarrassed, “...I think maybe I could give you some letters I’ve written and you can correct them. And make them better. More...romantic, or something.”

Aaron raised his eyebrows. 

Luke added, “...Or not. Don’t judge me like that.”

“No, no,” Aaron touched the beam again, smile spreading across his face, “I can do that for you. I think that’s a fair trade. Leave them there-- behind that wooden tool box-- tonight. No one will find them. I can come pick them up tomorrow morning.”

Luke’s shoulders relaxed, and he held out a hand, “Deal.”

****

Matt put both hands out in front of him, palms down, bracing, “Alright. Don’t be mad.”

“What a way to begin a conversation,” Aaron looked at him in the mirror, fixing his necktie. 

“I wanted to tell you before we met Dayton at the tavern.”

Aaron spun. 

Matt walked forward speaking in one breath, “I’ve been seeing....his sister-- romantically.”

Aaron’s face cracked into a grin, and his cousin went on, face reddened. 

“I’m only telling you this now because I know you’re only going to be here for a week and I don’t want this little secret casting a pall over your visit, and we’ve always been honest with each other--”

“--And how long have you been hiding this morsel of information?” Aaron’s grin widened. “You’re going to set Dayton over the edge. You know how impetuous he is.”

“ _Please_ don’t say anything.” Matt implored. 

“I didn’t even know he had a sister. Granted, we’ve only met a handful of times and one of those times involved him diving into a pond to save a dog,” Aaron mumbled, sitting on a bench and reaching for his boots. 

“It’s...his half-sister. Hannah.”

Aaron’s skin went cold, “...Hannah?”

Matt wrung his hands, dropping his voice, “Not...that Hannah. A different one.”

Aaron shot him a glare, “This feels punitive.”

_“It’s not.”_

“How did you two even meet?” Aaron stood and faced him. “And why are you springing this on me now? Do you want my dinner to go down in a lump?”

“It was in Princeton, over the Christmas Holidays.” Matt opened the door for them, and the pair stepped out.

“Well congratulations to the happy couple.”

“You’re still mad.” Matt struggled to keep pace with the other boy. “Sorry Reeve keeps you locked up like a convict but some of us have lives to live and enjoy.”

“I’m enjoying life,” Aaron responded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Did you read any of my letters? I’ve sent you about twenty since I left for Connecticut.”

“Yes, of course...it’s just that...some of them are a bit...disjointed.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

The pair walked on in the direction of the busy streets. Even in the cold evening, Elizabethtown bustled and moved. Aaron’s eyes darted from person to person. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Matt asked. “You’re frustrating sometimes. Just say what you mean.”

The two teenagers stopped at a street, allowing a carriage to pass. Aaron answered him, “What have you been telling my uncle?”

“Timothy? Christ, nothing. I don’t speak to him unless I absolutely have to,” Matt replied quickly. 

“No… my father’s brother,” Aaron caught his cousin’s gaze. “I know it’s you. Thad won’t leave me alone, all of the sudden he’s writing to me about different women he knows, wanting to get my opinion on this or that lady, insinuating I marry someone rich so I can ‘keep living the life I am used to’-- Matt, look at me--”

“--It’s not me!” Matt threw his hands up. 

“You didn’t write to him about Rebecca? Or Lorena?” 

The carriage moved, and the pair crossed the street. 

“No. I only told him that I was pursuing Hannah, and-- maybe he thought that since I’m looking to get married, you should be too.” Matt reasoned. He grabbed Aaron’s arm, “Stop walking. Look at me.”

Aaron obliged. Matt went on, “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Fine. In any case, it’s getting old. I can’t even leave the house without someone eyeing me suspiciously, and then reporting it back to some family member like a bloody spy.” Aaron grumbled, getting angrier with each word. He stumbled in a puddle, splashing water up his pant leg, “Goddamnit! I hate this town!”

Matt caught him and pulled him along, “You need food. You always get like this on an empty stomach.”

They made their way toward the old tavern. Hyer stood outside smoking a pipe, eyeing the pair as they ducked inside. Aaron glared at him, not breaking eye contact.

“Hyer’s going to drag you through the streets if you keep trying to start fights with him,” Matt said, unwrapping his scarf. “Oh! There’s Dayton and Henry. Glad they got here first. Maybe we can put the drinks on their tab this time.”

“Stealing Dayton’s sister and his money. And here I was thinking there was no gallantry left in this world.”

Matt hit him, “Let me bring Hannah up. You shut your mouth.”

“Over here!” Dayton stood up in his seat and waved, to the discomfort of Henry. 

“Dayton, Henry, hello, ” Aaron said in greeting, pulling up an empty chair from a nearby table. Matt mimicked him, nervously tapping his fingers on the table. 

“How are things at the College?” Aaron asked, looking at the two other boys. 

Dayton answered first, “Boring.”

“Lovely,” Henry answered at the same time as Dayton.

Dayton cut in, “And it’s _Brockholst_ , now. Not Henry.”

Matt laughed in spite of himself, “You sure about that?”

“It’s what all the professors insist on calling me. I think my father had something to do with it,” Henry replied, shoulders dropping. “There are six Henry’s in my Greek class alone. I guess they’re doing it for sanity.”

The four teenagers paused to accept their drinks. After several seconds, Henry spoke again. He cupped his ale in two hands, twisting it against the wooden table. 

“So… how are _your_ studies?” He eyed Aaron, “Can’t be easy, all alone in that old house with Reeve and your sister.”

“I’d go insane,” Dayton added. Matt stared into his drink.

“It’s not terrible. Keeping to a schedule has been...beneficial for me.” Even as the words left Aaron’s mouth, he could hear how hollow they were. 

Dayton laughed, “You sound like you’re swallowing nails.”

“Frankly I’d rather talk about anything other than my studies.”

“Alright, then,” Dayton pressed, smirking, “Talk. What else have you been up to?”

The hollowness expanded. Aaron took a large gulp of his wine. 

Matt interjected, putting his hand on the table, “Well… I have news. I’ve been seeing a young woman in the town. And it’s getting quite serious.”

“Who?” Henry asked. 

Matt glanced at Aaron, who made a face, “This is your confession, cousin, not mine.”

“What confession? How bad can she be?” Dayton laughed. “How terrible can Matt’s taste in women be?”

“It’s...I’ve been...corresponding...with...your sister, Hannah,” Matt replied, swallowing. 

Dayton’s expression dropped, “ _What?”_

Henry tilted his head back and laughed. Aaron watched the scene unfold with a small smile. 

“It’s nothing untoward,” Matt replied loudly, “I swear to you!”

“You’re courting my sister?” Dayton yelled, standing. “That’s unacceptable!”

“This might be our cue to leave,” Henry muttered, leaning towards Aaron. 

“I don’t know, _Brockholst_. I think I’d like to see how this plays out.”

Dayton pointed a finger, “You're disgusting. Did you only befriend me so you could get close to her? I should take you out back and--”

“--And what?” Matt’s defenses rose, and he sprang to his feet, spilling his ale with a loud clatter.

Some of the other patrons took notice of the brewing fight, and craned their heads to watch. Hyer marched over, and grabbed Aaron by his collar, lifting him. 

“Alright-- that’s it. I’m tired of you and your boys causing trouble in my tavern!” Hyer grumbled, “I put up with it for years, and I”m done! Get out!”

“Get off me! It’s not my fault!” Aaron broke free from the grasp, and shoved Hyer off. 

The tavern-keep glared at them, pointing towards the door “I said get out!”

****

Alexander rubbed his tailbone and lower back, wincing, “You would think someone would have invented more comfortable coach seats. A half-day’s journey from New York to Elizabethtown doesn’t seem that long until one steps out of the carriage and can hardly walk.”

“Back problems? Might be the mattress,” Troup offered helpfully, stepping down from the coach. “What a glorious day!”

“Ned said he got used to grey skies and that he’s had a headache every day since he’s been back.”

“Complain, complain,” Troup smiled, “I can see why you two were such good friends. Come on.”

The pair hopped from the street to a cobblestone sidewalk one by one, dodging a puddle. 

“Where to first, Alex?” Troup asked.

“Ned said he was going to meet us at the tavern a few blocks over,” Alexander answered, looking around, “I think it might be this way.”

Troup stopped short, and grabbed Alexander’s arm, “You mean _that_ tavern?”

Alexander looked up to see the group of boys being tossed out by Hyer, who shouted animatedly at them, “Oh…”

“I doubt he’s going to want to see _us_ , now.”

Hamilton narrowed his eyes, placing the faces: Dayton, who looked to be in a shoving match with Matt. Behind him-- Henry trying to pull them apart. Further back still, watching the fray with a smile, Burr. 

“We can’t let Ned meet us here,” Alexander turned to Troup.

“What? Why not? Those are our friends. He’d love to meet them.”

Alexander pulled his roommate behind a wagon, “They’re brawling in the streets. Like hooligans. We can’t be seen with them.”

“Oh who cares--”

“Bobby!”

Troup unhooked his sleeve, reemerging from behind the wagon, waving, “Henry! Dayton!”

The squabbling boys looked up from their fight. Henry’s face broke into a grin, and he let go of Matt, walking over, “Bobby!”

The two hugged in greeting; Troup pulled away and surveyed the scene, “Matt...Dayton...Aaron…”

“Hi,” Dayton huffed, brushing himself off.

“Hi,” Matt mimicked. 

“What’s...going on here?” Troup eyed them each. 

Dayton stepped up, pointing to Matt, “He’s fucking my sister, that’s what’s going on.”

Matt spun on him, _“I never said that you little--”_

Troup turned red, “Oh dear.”

“It’s nothing, Bobby,” Burr slid over to him, while Henry stopped another fist-fight, “How are you? Are you visiting Elizabethtown on your own?”

“I’m…” Troup looked back over Burr’s shoulder, wincing as Matt tossed a ball of dirt at Dayton, hitting him in the eye, “...Alexander and I are supposed to be meeting one of his old friends at the tavern just there. He’s finishing up his studies in Edinburgh to join King’s and we wanted to show him the town…”

“Hamilton is here? Where?”

Troup brought his gaze back to Aaron, then looked around.

“Here. Hello,” Hamilton sprang up from behind the wagon, “Just...dropped a button.”

“Were you hiding?” Burr watched him.

“No,” Alexander replied, defensively. “Why would I need to hide from you all?”

Troup’s brows furrowed, “You said they were fighting like h--”

“--Like _nothing_ ,” Hamilton’s grin hardened, and he nudged Troup in the ribs, who let out a soft moan of pain. Then, “How are you?”

“...Fine,” Aaron replied slowly. 

“Alright, that’s it!” Came Henry’s shout from nearby. He swung a hand in the direction of Matt and Dayton, coming towards the other three boys, calling back to them, “Go beat each other senseless in the alleyway, for all I care! I’m not getting involved!”

Hamilton felt Burr step closer, voice low, “You came at a good time.”

“Did I?”

“Alexander,” Henry came in for a hug, “What a pleasant surprise. You look well. You too, Troup...I think.”

“Just a bit of rib pain, don’t mind me,” Troup wheezed. 

“Are they going to be alright?” Hamilton asked, feeling eyes upon them, watching Matt and Dayton in animated conversation. Seconds later, Dayton stormed off. 

“They’ll be fine,” Burr interrupted his thoughts. 

“Agreed. Just a little tussle. Who are you two meeting?” Henry added.

“A friend from Edinburgh. Ned Stevens,” Alexander answered. “We were supposed to meet him at Hyer’s, but…”

“Oh, once he knows we’re friends, he’s not going to want to see you,” Aaron said, grinning. “Where is his coach supposed to be? You should meet him there instead.”

“Just there, where we were,” Troup offered. 

Matt walked up to them, irritated, “I have to go home and change. Dayton tore my shirt.” He held up a sleeve, and the other four boys stared. “This was brand new. Unbelievable. Aaron, are you coming?”

Burr felt four sets of eyes on him. “I’m going to stay out for a bit longer. I’ll meet you later.”

“Fine,” Matt huffed. He turned and headed in the opposite direction, disappearing into the crowded street. 

“Well. That was quite a welcome to Elizabethtown,” Troup said, brushing his pants. “Hope they work things out.”

Henry sighed, “If Dayton gets back to the dorms without me, the older students are going to talk. I better follow him. Alexander, Bobby-- it was great to see you both.”

“Likewise, Henry,” Alexander smiled and lifted a hand. 

“Adieu, Brockholst,” Aaron muttered wryly. 

Henry hit him on the shoulder, “Enough of that, I’m begging you.”

The remaining three teenagers watched Henry head back down the sidewalk.

“Looks like your friends abandoned you,” Hamilton observed. “You’re more than welcome to stay with us, though I don’t know how exciting a tour of Elizabethtown would be to you.”

Burr eyed him, “More exciting than going back to Matt’s and listening to him complain about Dayton.”

“Ned’s coach isn’t due for another two hours.” Troup offered. “I don’t want to stand in the street. It’s too loud.”

“Well apparently we’re not welcome in the tavern,” Hamilton reasoned, lifting his hand toward Hyer’s. He looked around, “We have to stay nearby, or we won’t get back to the coach in time.”

At this, another wagon rolled by, and the trio paused the conversation while the clatter died down. 

After the noise had subsided, Hamilton rubbed his temples, thinking. Then, looking up, “I know where we can go.”

****

Alexander settled beneath the same tree he’d visited hundreds of times, usually with his schoolwork splayed out in front of him, in the pre-dawn hours while the mists hung low across the gravestones. The earth was dry and cold; he removed his overcoat and set it on the ground to sit on, motioning for the other two boys to do the same. 

Troup made a face, looking around, “Alex…”

Hamilton looked up, “What? I used to come here all the time. You can see the main street, right through that gap in the trees. We can hear the clock strike the hour in the town square. We’ll be able to see Ned’s coach as soon as it arrives.”

Burr crossed his arms and leaned against a tall gravestone. Troup turned to him. 

“You’re okay with this? Defiling consecrated ground?”

“Bobby,” Aaron let out a low chuckle, “No one’s defiling anything. We’re just sitting here.”

“See?” Alexander added. 

Burr pushed himself off the gravestone and motioned for Hamilton to move. He brushed some leaves aside and sat down next to him. He looked up at Troup, expectant.

“Fine...” Troup sighed, and sat down. 

“I used to come out here every morning when I was at the Academy,” Alexander reiterated. “There was nothing more peaceful than those early hours. No one bothered me. I was able to get so much studying done. Now it feels like I never have a moment to myself.”

“I wish I had that problem,” Aaron muttered. 

“What do you mean?” Troup asked.

Burr adjusted himself against the cold ground, picking up a twig and tossing it, “Lately it seems I have nothing but free time. I came to visit Matt for a bit, just to have something to do. I spend my days watching life pass me by.”

“That’s a bit grim. It could be worse,” Hamilton countered.

“I suppose it’s in one’s perspective,” Burr replied, noncommittal. “But I find ways to entertain myself, so all is not lost.”

Alexander cleared his throat, “I have been taking extra courses to catch up with the other students.”

“And how is that?” 

“Busy. As I said.”

Troup toyed with a small stick, grinning, “He’s falling behind in chemistry.”

Hamilton hit him on the arm.

“I always hated chemistry,” Burr said. 

“Yes but in medical studies it is a _requirement_ ,” Hamilton responded. He shot Troup a look, defensively, “And I am not falling behind, I am simply taking a bit longer to synthesize the information. There is nothing wrong with that. Once Ned gets here he can tutor me more-- he’s training to be a doctor, as well.”

The three were silent for a minute. Alexander picked up a brilliantly red leaf, studying it, the veins criss-crossing delicately across the thin membrane. He held it up to the light. Aaron watched him. 

“I have something silly for you,” he cut in. Alexander’s eyes darted over to him, “I have been corresponding with a lady--but _not_ in the way you might think.”

“God, I can’t wait to hear this,” Troup chuckled.

“I need fresh opinions,” Burr looked from Troup, to Hamilton. He dropped his stare and began absentmindedly plucking strands of dead grass, one-by-one, speaking, “I told Matt about this in a letter but he never responded. The story is this: I write once, sometimes twice a week, to a lady who doesn’t know that it’s me writing to her. The letters, on both sides, are mostly friendly and sweet--”

“--Are you sure you should be telling us this?” Hamilton interrupted. 

“...I want to hear about the lady’s letters,” Troup added.

Burr looked from him, to Hamilton, and went on, “It’s a favor I’m doing for one of the horse-masters in Litchfield.”

“Why do you owe him a favor?” Alexander interrupted again.

Aaron’s smile faded incrementally, “He...caught me in a compromising position.”

“What did you get caught doing?”

“That’s not pertinent to the story,” Burr stole a glance at Hamilton.

“I want to hear about the letters,” Troup cut in, leaning forward. He addressed Burr, “What was the favor?”

Aaron turned to him, “She wrote to him, and he didn’t know how to respond, so he asked me to craft letters for him. Of course I obliged, I am always willing to help a man in need--”

“--I assume the lady had no knowledge of this,” Hamilton cut him off for the third time. He watched as Burr closed his eyes, sighing. “You, divulging secrets from her that she would otherwise not want you to know about.”

Burr gave him his full attention, putting a hand on his heart, “I would sooner suffer crucifixion rather than be guilty of such unparalleled meanness. Everything she writes me is purely sentimental.”

Troup laughed, putting his head down onto his knees. Hamilton turned pink, chewing his lip.

“You asked for my opinion, and I shall give it. I think it is strange.”

 _“I_ am strange, says the boy spending his free time in graveyards,” Burr countered. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t help out a friend in need, in such a way? Especially a friend to whom you owed a favor?”

Hamilton tilted his head, “I suppose that depends on the delicacy of the knowledge I had about said friend. How extreme the favor would need to be. If I knew what this horse-master had caught you doing, perhaps I could form a better judgement.”

“He caught me sneaking home at four in the morning, after spending the night with a girl,” Burr answered simply. “Is that extreme enough?”

“You really do have too much time on your hands, Aaron,” Troup lifted his head. “It’s dangerous, frankly.”

Alexander scooted back, resting his head back against the bark of the tree, looking up into the sparse canopy of leaves, “I suppose that is what comes of being academically unchallenged.”

Aaron stiffened, “And what do you call writing pages upon pages of refutations to anonymous letters in the newspaper, as if they were personal attacks?”

Hamilton whipped his gaze back to Burr, who laughed. 

“What do you know of that? That was to Rivington’s gazetteer in New York. How the hell did you end up with it in Connecticut?”

“I have sources.”

 _“Sources?”_ Hamilton repeated. 

“Reeve asked me to look over it and construct a response in contrast to your arguments. I’ll admit I had trouble meandering through the effusive prose but I managed. I suppose that was the purpose of the assignment-- to test my Christian patience,” Burr grinned. 

“I wonder how many others have had the pleasure of reading your essays, then,” Troup said, somewhat worried, staring at his roommate. 

Hamilton straightened his back, smugly, “Well. Good. The more people that read it, the more I can convince. I don’t care if it’s distributed throughout the entire country.”

“No? You’re not worried Cooper will trace it back to you?” Burr asked. 

“I am,” Troup responded. He looked back at Aaron, explaining, “Cooper has resolved to start doing dorm inspections, to make sure there are no radical ideas spreading. He’s gotten worse. I live in constant fear this one is going to let something slip and expose us both.”

“Oh, please, Bobby, I am more cautious than that,” Alexander scoffed. 

“You most certainly are not,” Troup insisted. “What about that night with Nathaniel, and the pros--”

“--Bobby. _Shut up,_ ” Hamilton’s color deepened and he cut his roommate off through gritted teeth.

Burr let out a triumphant laugh, “Aha-- so you _do_ have free time.”

Hamilton closed his eyes and exhaled, shoulders falling. Troup put a hand to his mouth.

“I would love to hear _that_ story, Little Hamilton.” Burr rearranged his position on the ground, scanning Alexander with new interest.

Hamilton matched him, “You’ll just have to use your imagination, Little Burr.”

“Maybe I will.”

Troup looked from one boy to the other, changing the subject, “Does anyone have the time? I think it might be nearing four.”

Alexander seemed not to hear him, addressing Aaron, “Well-- after you’ve squeezed that scenario dry, perhaps you can focus your thoughts on something a bit more in line with your own studies, and settle a religious question I have been torturing myself with these past few days.” 

“...Oh?” Burr searched him again.

“What do you make of this Anglican business-- conflating both the role of the church and the role of government? We attended a lecture the other week regarding the issue and the general consensus was that it is entirely improper for the bishops to be so closely aligned with the British government in all their decision making,” Hamilton responded in one breath.

Burr exhaled, leaning back against the tree again, “I see.”

“What do you make of it?” Hamilton asked again.

Aaron looked from Alexander to Troup, unsure, “...I feel as though there is a right and wrong answer, here.”

“There is,” Hamilton replied, before Troup could cut in. 

Burr raised an eyebrow, lowering his gaze, “It seems an impossible situation, doesn’t it? The church should never have a say in matters of government and politics, in my mind. But is not the very nature of the Church of England a governmental one, so to speak? How to divorce the two.”

“Yes, very good. That is the question. I am asking your opinion on it,” Hamilton pressed him. “You are learned in these matters, correct?”

“...By comparison to most, yes.”

“Alex, come on, he obviously has no opinion one way or the other. Don’t put him on the spot,” Troup laughed weakly.

“So settle the matter,” Hamilton demanded. 

“You recall I gave up on the ministerial life,” Burr reasoned. “My opinion on the question is immaterial.”

“Maybe, but I’m still curious. What are your thoughts? Don’t make me ask again. It’s cruel.”

Burr laughed, “I’m not trying to be cruel, I am trying to manage your expectations.”

“I have thoughts,” Troup interjected, to no response. 

“Very well,” Hamilton smiled, re-adjusted himself on the ground, flattening his overcoat and facing Burr, “My expectations are sufficiently managed. I would like to hear the learned Reverend--”

“--Don’t call me that,” Aaron cut him off swiftly. 

Alexander looked taken aback, “I’m… I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense--”

“It’s fine.” Burr clenched his jaw, then, quickly, “I think the colonies will need to adapt the Anglican church to suit their own needs, separate from the Church of England. It is the only way the denomination can exist in America if she plans on setting up any kind of government on her own.”

Hamilton nodded, quiet, “Those were my thoughts exactly.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Troup interjected loudly, finally garnering the attention of the other two boys. He went on, addressing Alexander, “I believe I saw a stagecoach pulling up, just now, where Ned said his would be. Perhaps he is early. Shall we go check?”

Hamilton craned his neck, checking through the trees, then looked back at Burr, “Bobby’s right. Would you like to meet my friend? If you are not busy this evening?”

Before Burr could answer, Hamilton cut him off, holding up a finger playfully, standing “Do not answer that. I know you’re not busy. Come on, let’s go.”

****

Hamilton’s face broke into a wide grin at the sight of his old friend; his heart leapt and without thinking, he pulled him into a hug. 

“Ned-- I can’t believe it--”

“--I’ve missed you. It’s so wonderful to finally see you again.” Ned’s words came out stifled into Alexander’s shoulder. 

Burr hung back with Troup, observing the pair: the same hair color, the same splash of freckles, the same countenance--

“--They look like they could be related,” Troup leaned over, muttering, “Alexander told me some of the nasty talk on his island.”

“Which is?” 

“That they’re half-brothers.” Troup explained. Some yards ahead, Alexander and Ned exchanged more pleasantries while the coach driver cracked his whip and urged the horses onward with a clatter. Troup went on, “Alexander told me the actual records of the island show that Ned’s father and Alexander’s mother were nowhere near each other when...well-- you know...contraception should have happened. Suffice it to say it’s biologically impossible for them to be related. But still. One does have to wonder.”

“Meet Ned, everyone,” Hamilton’s smile blazed across his face, cheeks pink, coming towards them. 

Troup and Burr held out their hands to shake. Aaron’s eyes darted between Alexander and his old friend, comparing them internally.

“What a journey,” Ned said breathlessly, the slight lilt of a Scottish accent dancing over his words. 

Hamilton stared at him, “It’s so good to see you.”

“I told you as soon as my studies finished in Edinburgh I would be on the first ship available,” Ned tore his gaze from Alexander and over to the two other boys, “I have one more year left before I get my medical degree. Perfect timing, too, since I can help Alexander with his.”

“How did you two meet?” Burr asked politely. 

Something flashed in Hamilton’s eye, and he spoke as if he didn’t hear the question, “Ned, unfortunately we are unable to take you to the tavern in town due to some unforeseen circumstances.”

“Oh! I’d almost forgot. I brought a gift for you, Alex,” Ned fished something from his bag: a bottle of shimmering honey-brown liquid, “Scottish whiskey. The best in the world. Who needs a dirty old tavern anyway?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Alexander blushed, taking the bottle.

“I wanted to,” Ned looked at him softly. The four boys were silent for a half-second. Ned spoke up again, “So. If not the tavern-- where will we be enjoying this? I take it we won’t be allowed back into the dormitories, if your letters are to be believed.”

“No,” Troup said emphatically. 

“We were just sitting in the graveyard, beyond the tree line,” Burr answered, pointing. 

Ned studied him, “You look familiar. You said Burr, right?” A look of realization crossed his face, and he turned to Alexander, “He’s _that_ Burr--”

“--Come, Ned,” Hamilton cut him off, looping his arm around Ned’s and pulling him towards the direction of the graveyard. He walked ahead, past Troup and Burr, head bowed in conversation with his old friend.

Troup made a face, “Are...we...invited to the whiskey party?”

“I’m not going to stand here like a booby,” Burr put his arm around Troup, and led him down the same path as the other two boys, reasoning, “What are they going to say? They don’t own the graveyard. They can’t tell us to leave, can they?”

“Well, no--”

They caught up with Ned and Alexander in several more steps. 

“There you two are, keep up,” Alexander said, high-colored, “Everyone sit. I want to try this world famous whiskey.”

Aaron kicked a stone out of his way, sweeping aside more leaves with his foot. He sat, watching Ned struggle to uncork the liquor. 

“Give it to me,” Burr said, reaching out. He gripped the cork tightly and squeezed, maneuvering it open and handing it back. He caught Hamilton’s inscrutable gaze, and looked away, “Terribly tight. My brother-in-law likes a good whiskey. I have practice.”

“Fantastic, thank you,” Ned said, “We don’t have cups, so-- here goes nothing.”

He tilted the bottle back and took a sip, wincing. 

“That’s...strong.” Ned opened his eyes, and looked from boy to boy, “Alright, who’s next?”

Troup steeled himself, “Me. I’ll try a bit.” He took the bottle and knocked back a tiny sip, “My goodness, you weren’t kidding.”

Alexander held out his hand, and Troup handed it to him. He studied the liquid in the afternoon light, sloshing it around. Aaron laughed, “For God’s sake, Alexander. It’s not wine. Just take your sip and pass it over.”

Hamilton gave him a look, and tilted the bottle back. He closed his eyes and swallowed, nodding, “ _Very_ good.”

Burr reached out and gripped the neck of the bottle, putting the top to his lips and tasting Alexander through the burning liquor. 

“So-- now that we are all sufficiently lubricated,” Ned spoke, “Tell me about your studies, Alexander. Tell me about your time at Kings! What should I expect?”

Hamilton laughed and rolled his eyes, “Where to begin--”

Burr turned to Troup, letting Hamilton’s voice fade in the background, “Is he always like this?”

Troup sputtered through another sip of whiskey, putting the bottle down against a tree stump. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “...Is he...like what?”

Aaron stole another glance at Ned and Alexander, who were in animated conversation as though the other two boys weren’t there, “Why did he invite you, if only to ignore you? Seems a bit rude.”

“Oh, he’s alright…”

Aaron cleared his throat loudly, and Ned and Alexander continued their conversation. He looked back at Troup.

“They do not share a father, but, perhaps, a brain?” Burr joked, low, grabbing the whiskey again.

Troup laughed, indicating he share the bottle, “Alright. That is fair. I’m resigned to my position.”

“Which is…?”

Troup swallowed, “ _Follower_.”

“Oh...don’t be that way,” Aaron shook his head, chuckling. “Don’t let him overshadow you, Bobby. You have much to offer the world, I am certain.”

“May we?” Hamilton spoke directly to them, pointing at the bottle, “You two weren’t planning on finishing the entire thing by yourselves, were you?”

“Alex, it’s fine,” Ned muttered, smiling.

“By all means, Little Hamilton,” Burr locked eyes with him, handing over the liquor. Hamilton blushed and swiped it. 

“Where are you-- hey, wait--!” Troup stood, watching Ned and Alexander walk down the graveyard path. 

Burr stood up slowly, “It looks like you may be navigating the coach system by yourself tonight, or walking home alone.”

Troup’s shoulders sagged, and he called out after them, “Where are you going?”

Hamilton waved, pointing around him, “I’m showing Ned the rest of the graveyard. We’ll be back in twenty minutes!”

“ _And_ he took the whiskey…” Troup mumbled. He lifted a hand, and dropped it loudly against his leg. 

Burr appeared by his side, “Where are you staying, Bobby? I’ll walk you.”

“I don’t know. We were going to find an inn somewhere when the sun went down and then head back to New York on the earliest coach we could catch tomorrow. Knowing Alex he’s probably going to drink too much and pass out behind a tree.”

“Does he...do that a lot?” Aaron inquired, worried. 

“No, I suppose not. I’m exaggerating. I’ve had too much to drink.” Troup crossed his arms and looked around, “I don’t want to stay here. I didn’t want to come to the bloody graveyard in the first place.”

Burr put his arm around Troup again, “The nearest in is just down the path. Let’s find a place for you both, for the night.”

“Thank you, Aaron. At least someone cares, and is _decent_ ,” Troup replied. “Will he know where to find me?”

“There’s only one other inn besides Hyer’s-- and although the sheets are a bit...questionable...the maids are sweet and the owner is a gentle old man who will be thankful for the business,” Burr walked them back out of the graveyard, and towards the town center, “You can tell them I sent you. I bet he’ll give you a free meal.”

“God bless you,” Troup said emphatically. 

Burr pointed to a small brick building on a corner some streets over, “Do you see that building? The sign is hard to read-- the inn is called Wood’s. Head there and ask for lodgings. Do you need money?”

“No, thank you.” Troup brushed a leaf from his leg, “You’ll go find Alexander, right?”

“Indeed, right now. I am certain he and Fred have surveyed the entire graveyard twice by now.”

“Ned.”

Burr waved a hand, “Right. Ned. See? We are both tipsy. I will tell him where to go, and head back to my cousins where I will pass out and sleep for twelve hours, God willing.”

Troup nodded one last time in Aaron’s direction, and made his way towards the Inn. Burr watched him until he disappeared into a crowd of vendors, and then looked back at the graveyard. 

He slid back in through the fence, and ducked under several low branches, looking for the path. He paused, listening for voices. After a beat, he heard rustling, and headed in the direction of the noise. In the dim light, he lost his balance against what felt like a rock; Burr swore under his breath and looked down, the almost-empty whiskey bottle glinting up at him. He rolled his eyes. 

“Hamilton? Ned?” Burr called, picking it up and grabbing a branch with his free hand to move it, leaning against gravestones as he made his way further down the path. 

He paused again, straining to listen. From the left, he heard a soft moan, and registered the sound immediately. 

Burr backed up against a tree and looked around, fighting a smile. He turned his head again to peek around another set of branches and a tall, broken statue. He pushed off the bark, trying to get a better look at the scene: Alexander pressed against a different tree--Ned at his mouth, hands searching each other. 

Aaron bit his tongue and fell back, studying the mosaic of dead leaves covering the earth. 

“Unbelievable,” He muttered. He lifted the bottle and looked at it: a few ounces of whiskey sloshing around. Aaron thought for a moment, and then tipped it back and finished it. 

He heard another moan, and a low laugh, and a discomfort settled over him. He slid down the tree, sitting back on the ground, studying the empty glass and holding it up towards the setting sun. The brilliant orange flare at the horizon peaked through the trees and the bottle, light refracting at odd angles, and Burr squinted. 

Soft, inarticulate voices filtered in and out of earshot: _my truest friend...I have missed you..._

His own mind chastised him: _You should make your presence known. This is unacceptable._

Burr froze, staring at the sunset, letting it burn his eyes. The burning sun dipped out of sight and he closed his stinging eyes, headache creeping in. His breaths settled and he adjusted his head. Sleep crept in incrementally.

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Hamilton shouted, jumping. “How long have you been there?”

Burr awoke with a start, heart racing. 

“How long have you been there? Oh, you’ve finished my whiskey!” Hamilton bent down and picked up the bottle, frowning. He looked back at Burr, angry, holding it up, “You didn’t ask if you could have this. It was a gift to me.”

Aaron rubbed his eyes and sprang to his feet, “Stop yelling, for God’s sake. I tried to find you and--”

He stopped, unsure how to proceed. Alexander waited. 

“--And I couldn’t. I didn’t know where you went. Where’s your friend?”

“He is staying with some of his relations in town,” Hamilton indicated aimlessly. “Where the hell is Bobby?”

“I showed him to Wood’s Inn, just down the main road. Something you should have done before disappearing with Ned. He was hurt, you know. You can’t do that to people-- disregard them when someone more interesting comes along,” Burr heard himself say. 

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Aaron brushed his pant legs, and walked toward the main path, stepping over an exposed root. 

He heard the sound of crunching leaves behind him; Alexander catching up.

“Hey... _hey--_ What do you mean by that? I did not _abandon_ him. I told him--” Hamilton increased his pace, reaching out. He caught Burr’s sleeve and yanked it, stopping him, “--I’m talking to you. What right do you have, being angry?”

“I said forget it,” Aaron released himself from the other boy’s grip and continued on his way.


	18. Opportunity

Aaron paced his room, a trapped animal, the sun seeping in through the windows, heating the room uncomfortably. He looked over at the half-finished letter on his desk, reciting the words he’d written in his head.

_Your happiness, Matt, is really almost the only present thing I can contemplate with any satisfaction; though I, like other fools, view futurity with partiality enough to make it very desirable; but I must first throw reason aside, and leave fancy uncontrolled… for my imagination, when most romantic, is not lively or delusive enough to paint an object that can, in my eyes, atone for your absence._

Aaron stood still for a moment, eyes lowered toward the letter, reading and rereading the words until they sounded dull and stupid. He scoffed and scratched through a line, embarrassed.

_From this you will conclude that the news you heard of me at Princeton is groundless. It is so far from being true, that scarce two persons can fix on the same lady to tease me with._

He grinned to himself. That will do. He saw Matt’s disapproving, jealous face in the forefront of his mind, and convinced himself that this line would ease his suspicions.

 _However, I would not have you think that this diversity of opinion arises from the volatility of my constitution, or that I am in love with every new or pretty face I see. But, I hope you know me too well to need a caution of this nature._

The last year had been one of leisure and experimentation. _Well_ , corrected Aaron internally, _maybe leisure was the wrong word._ It wasn’t as if he’d been sleeping until noon, lounging around like a sluggard. He’d tried, certainly, that sort of behavior, but ended up sick with a headache – _As always_ —It was enough to make him cry.

His body seemed wired opposite: the more he rested, the sicker he felt. It took Aaron several months of this experiment to figure out that work, keeping his mind occupied and his physical person busy, was the way around the sickness. 

He’d given up coffee, sugars, fruits, things that made him jittery and uncomfortable. He’d taken to eating bread and vegetables, or things that doctors professed would make his mind sharper and his hand steadier. Still, these remedies were more trouble than they were worth, and Burr found himself wandering the streets some nights looking for something—anything—to quell the vigor that writhed inside of him. 

_I am very glad to hear of -----'s downfall. But, with all that fellow's low-lived actions, I don't more sincerely despise him than I do certain other narrow-hearted scoundrels you have among you._

Aaron laughed out-loud reading over this bit of his letter. He sounded judgmental, a true Edwards. He could practically hear Matt’s voice scolding him for being so high-and-mighty, the ever-present playful inflection creeping into his words. He thought better of his wording and scratched through a name, preserving their pride.

_Mean as ---------- is, he appears to me to have (or rather to have had) more of something at bottom that bordered on honor, than some who will pass through life respected by many. I say this, not so much to raise him above the common standard of duels, as to sink them below it. My idea of a duel is composed more of malice than of meanness._

A knock on the door brought Aaron from his thoughts. He walked over to it, leaned in, “Who is there?”

“Rebecca,” a female voice responded. In the next second, Burr opened the door, and she stood before him, smiling, with a plate of food.

“You’ve been locked in here all day. I figured you’d want something to eat, at least,” she said again, letting herself into the room. She placed the tray down and leaned in for a kiss. “Your sister told me you’ve stopped eating.”

“You are too kind,” Aaron replied. He reached for the letter, and folded it, out of sight.

“What was that?”

Burr smiled, “Nothing. Just some letter to a friend.”

Rebecca sat down on the unmade bed, pouting, “About?”

“It is a private matter,” Aaron tried to sound kind, but watched as the girl’s face fell. “Did Reeve let you in? I told him I did not want to be bothered.”

She crossed her arms, “You have been nothing but private for months. I have opened myself up to you, and for _what?_ We barely talk when we are together… your letters have grown _so_ infrequent--”

“—I am sorry, Rebecca,” Aaron cut in, “But you know I am busy with studies.” He raised a hand absentmindedly to his desk, sparsely and unconvincingly covered with a handful of blank papers and an unused quill.

The girl pursed her lips, and grabbed a piece of bread from the tray, biting into it. She stared out the window and chewed. She swallowed, and seemed to brace herself for her next words. 

“I have come here with something very important to tell you.”

Something inside Aaron dropped; his stomach knotted, “And what is that?”

Rebecca stood, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, “You must be kind with me, after this admission.”

“Should I sit down, first?”

The girl walked over to him, and grabbed one of his hands. Burr felt her shaking nerves, and knew, before she even opened her mouth, what the words would be. He braced himself.

“I think... have fallen in love with you.”

A thick wall of silence descended between them, and Aaron realized that the non-response was the _worst_ response, and he opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling to find words. Rebecca’s face grew pale, then pink at the tip of her nose, as her eyes watered.

“Say something!”

“I…this is…unexpected,” Aaron managed, removing his hand from hers. He watched as the girl’s face creased around her eyes, wetness filling them, her cheeks now bright red.

“Unexpected?” She replied. “How can this be unexpected, when I have been with you nearly every night this month!”

Aaron felt himself blush. He bit his lip, “I didn’t…you must understand, I am very busy, and—”

“—Oh, I don’t want to hear it!” Rebecca shouted. She brought one finger to her left eye to dry it, “You are a monster, to make me look so foolish!”

“Please, Rebecca, lower your voice, we can talk this out,” Burr said, suddenly feeling like crying himself. He swallowed, and walked over to the girl, putting his arm around her. She shook it off angrily. 

“Do not touch me. I see what kind of man you are,” she hissed, pushing past him. “I thought maybe you were honorable, but now I see you are nothing but a snake.”

Aaron’s words failed him, and a small voice inside his head told him to let the scene play out as it will, and the pieces fall where they may.

_Snake!_

The door slammed, and a sudden rainstorm howled outside his room. He stared at the plate of food dumbly, Rebecca’s voice still ringing out against the stream of rain. He stared out the window, and, in a few short minutes, saw Rebecca’s figure walking quickly down the path. Even hooded, he could tell she had a hand to her eye, humiliated. He recoiled.

Briefly, Burr wondered who she’d tell, and what she’d say, about the cruel man who took her honor and then cast her aside. He stuck his hand in his pocket, and pulled out the half-finished letter, setting it back on his desk.

He put quill to paper again:

 _Since I commenced this letter I have passed through a scene entirely new. Now, as novelty is the chief and almost only ingredient of happiness here below, you'll fancy I have had some lucky turn. I think_ _it quite the reverse, I assure you. I have serious thoughts of leaving the matter here, that you may be on the rack of curiosity for a month or so. Would not this be truly satanic?_

Aaron smiled again. He saw Matt in his mind, perhaps scowling, perhaps playfully punching him on the arm. It was their in-joke, he smiled to himself, to call anything and everything--any small inconvenience-- satanic. 

_What would be your conjectures in such a case? The first, I guess, that I was sadly in love, and had met with some mortifying rebuff._

“Well,” Burr sat back, spoke out loud to himself, “You would be wrong, Matty.” He twirled the quill, thought for a minute, then wrote some more:

_What would you say if I should tell you that Rebecca had absolutely professed love for me?_

The needling guilt hit him again. 

He crossed out Rebecca’s name. Besides, Matt needn’t know her identity, to add extra pain to their already hurtful distance. Adding a name felt...Aaron couldn’t place his finger on it. Unnecessarily hurtful to all parties involved. 

_Now I can see you with both hands up--eyes and mouth wide open; but don't be over scrupulous. Trust me, I tell you the whole truth. I cannot at present give you any further particulars about the matter, than that I felt foolish enough, and gave as cautious a turn to it as I could, for which I am destined to suffer her future hostility._

It would be a long time before the lovely and willing Rebecca would ever cross paths with him. Aaron looked at the clock nearby on his wall. He’d been idling away the entire morning on the blasted letter, and the spurned girl. He tapped his fingers on the desk in front of him, a nervous anxiousness rising inside of his muscles he couldn’t understand.

He had nothing to do, no one to see, so why--? He sighed, spotting the letter from his uncle, who promised a visit sometime in the near future, crammed between two illustrative books on his shelf, as if Burr had hoped that by hiding the letter the truth would be changed, too. The last thing Aaron wanted was his ill-tempered uncle poking around in his things. 

“ _That_ is why I feel I am being watched.” Burr shook his head, the anxiousness settling in his stomach. He put his chin in his left hand, took up the pen with his right, and wrote:

_Last week I received a letter from T. Edwards, which I fear may prove fatal to the dear project of the 15th of April. He intends to be hereabout the middle of that month. Supposing he should come here the 13th of April, what could I do? Run off and leave him?_

Aaron put his head down into his arms, onto his desk, and laughed at the image of himself ditching the old man, leaving him stupidly wandering around, looking for his nephew.

 _“_ Christ. He would send the entire army after me.” 

_Observe the uncertainty of all sublunary things._

Aaron raised his head, chin on his fist. His eyes followed a dark cloud across the sky as the rain picked up, pounding the earth harder for several minutes while it passed. The wind picked up and a branch cracked in a nearby tree, splitting angrily and hitting the ground with a shaking of leaves. The remaining branches swayed sorrowfully in the storm as if in mourning. He tapped the quill twice against his cheek. 

_I, who a few months ago was as uncontrolled in my motions as the lawless meteors, am now (sad reverse!) at the beck of a person forty miles off. But all this lamentation, if well considered, is entirely groundless, for (_ between you and me _) I intend to see you at Elizabethtown this spring._

It was certain, thought Aaron, that he had to see Matt again. But a smaller voice told him that he had nothing to show for himself, nothing impressive, nothing but silly stories about girls and parties and diets, and that Matt wouldn’t care either way. Or, he would burn with jealousy. Quickly, Aaron added the last bit to his letter, hearing the bell tower in the distance strike two pm:

_I have struck up a correspondence with J. Bellamy. He has very lately settled in the practice of the law at Norwich, a place about seventy miles S. E. of this. He is one of the cleverest fellows I have to deal with. Sensible, a person of real humour, and is an excellent judge of mankind--_

_\--though he has not had opportunity of seeing much of the world. Adieu._

\----

The dinner was quiet, save for the sounds of utensils scraping against the plates and the crackling of the fire in the dining room. Burr glanced from his sister to Reeve, appetite waning in apprehension. The clock struck seven: the quick, low chimes in succession seemed to inch the words out of Aaron’s mouth for him. He stared over at the grandfather clock briefly, then back to his relatives, eyes landing on a newspaper laying open on a wooden drink cart. The spring storms raged on outside. 

Burr took a deep breath. 

“I've decided to join the army.”

The words did not have the effect Aaron thought they would. His sister and brother-in-law exchanged small smiles. 

“Is something funny?” Aaron took a small spoonful of soup and brought it up to his mouth.

“I told you not to leave those papers laying around, Tap,” Sally laughed, shaking her head. “The fanciful stories would go to his head.”

Reeve chuckled. 

“They’re not ‘fanciful stories’,” Aaron tried to steady the defensive adrenaline that kicked in; the pain of severing a dead limb: “Laugh if you want. I’m writing to Matt and he’s coming up to Connecticut to join with me. There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

Aaron took another bite. 

Sally’s expression hardened, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You have six months left in your studies,” Reeve echoed her. “You would throw a decent career away to chase some fantasy?”

“It’s not a fantasy,” Aaron responded. “You saw the articles. You read the stories, about what’s happening in Massachusetts.”

“You’re not going, and that’s final,” Reeve replied, raising his voice. 

“What are you going to do? Lock me in my bedroom? Break the horse’s legs?”

“Aaron,” Sally cut him off.

He looked at his sister, “What?”

Reeve’s fork scraped against the plate again; he took another bite and swallowed, “We’re not having this discussion right now. Like most boys your age you saw something exciting and wanted to be a part of it without thinking through to the consequences. I guarantee tomorrow will bring a change of heart.”

Aaron laughed, mirthless, “That is so--”

“--So what?” His brother in law cut him off. 

“So insulting.”

“I am being realistic,” Reeve replied, with a maddening finality in his voice. He studied the small portion of food on his plate, and took a bite. 

Aaron dropped his fork, and the other two looked up at the noise. He spoke, “What is the point?”

“What are you talking about?” Sally replied. 

“What is the point of any of this? Just sitting around ignoring everything that’s going on. What does any of this have to do with actual bloodshed?” Aaron reasoned. 

Sally narrowed her eyes and Aaron couldn’t look at them without thinking of his mother. 

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to finish your studies here and stay the course for once in your life instead of jumping at every new distraction,” She raised her voice at him, unwavering. 

Aaron blinked, “You don’t get a say in that.”

“Don’t I?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin and slammed it on the table, and then indicated to Reeve, “Don’t _we_? Haven’t we given you a home? An education?”

Aaron faltered, “And for that I am grateful, but you have to understand--”

“--What could we possibly need to understand? That we are just here to suffer your whimsies, to sit back and allow you to throw your future away because you are bored?” Sally responded loudly. Reeve touched her arm and she shook him off, sarcastically, “No. I’m finished with it. I’m sorry we _bore_ you, Aaron.”

“That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth, ” Aaron matched her tone.

Reeve cut in, lifting a hand, “I think this is a discussion that should be continued tomorrow, after we have all had time to settle our tempers.”

The bickering siblings ignored him. Sally went on, “It never ends with you. It’s one thing after another. We have put up with the comings and goings at odd hours, the embarrassments at the tavern and all the girls-- yes, Aaron, we know full well what goes on, do not give me that look. You have never taken any of this seriously.”

Aaron fell back into his seat, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched. 

“Your sister is right, Aaron,” Reeve cut in, low. 

“Of course you’d take her side. You can have your own opinion, you know,” Aaron remarked snidely. 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Sally asked. 

Aaron began tapping his knife against the table; a rapid, nervous, absentminded beat, “What’s your plan then? Do you suppose you’ll be able to direct me for the rest of my life? Do you think you’ll have a say when I am thirty? Forty? Fifty?”

Sally held her ground, “You are being irrational, just like a child. You want to join the army because you are bored and you want to feel important, because you think this life is beneath you. Why else would someone put themselves in harm’s way like that?”

“So you agree? There _will_ be a war?” Aaron shot back. 

Sally turned pink and her gaze darted from her brother to her husband, looking for back-up. 

Aaron interjected under his breath, “Perhaps the study of lawyerly rhetoric _has_ benefitted me. Though I doubt I will be arguing much with hysterical women in court.”

“That’s enough,” Reeve said, glaring at him. 

Aaron quieted, bringing a cup to his mouth and taking a deep gulp.

Sally wiped her mouth, words barbed, “You are the hysterical one, not me. I am building a solid foundation and you are flinging yourself from one fancy to the next like a girl. Perhaps after the army you can join a squadron of strolling players and then you’ll never be bored.”

“Sally!” Reeve raised his voice again. “Was that entirely necessary? Unbecoming language.”

“May I be excused?” Aaron muttered, after a beat. Reeve nodded curtly and his eyes followed the teenager as he sullenly made his way from the table to the stairs, descending then two at a time. 

Aaron slammed his door, nerves rattled. He paced-- putting a hand at his jaw, as it throbbed in pain from clenching. He slowed, stopped, opening and closing his mouth, counting to five as he inhaled to steady his breaths. He exhaled and plopped down on his mattress, the conversation running through his head. 

Muffled sounds of his sister and brother-in-law speaking floated up from the kitchen and embarrassment radiated out from his chest-- _they are talking about you as if you aren’t within earshot._

Aaron pictured the horse master, Luke-- meeting him in the dead of night, demanding he ready one of the horses for Aaron to make his escape. Another fleeting, chastising thought pushed that one aside-- _you would have him be an accomplice to your crime? You know what would happen to him. Shame on you._

The voices carried on and Aaron fell back, closing his eyes. 

_What is this about?_ He asked himself. 

The teenager lost track of the minutes. A soft knock stirred him, and Aaron opened his eyes again.

“Aaron.” Sally muttered. The teenager strained to hear if there was any contrition in her voice. He waited. She spoke again, muted, “...Aaron, open the door, please.”

Aaron dragged himself from his bed and acquiesced to his sister’s demand, lowering his gaze and staring at the dark wooden floor as she made her way past him. He shut the door quietly, and faced her, swallowing. 

“Before you speak, sister--” he began.

Sally held up her hand; Aaron shook his head. 

He continued, “No. I was rude. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me.”

His sister eyed him, a gentleness descending over her features, “We are both at fault, there. May I sit?” She indicated to the chair, and Aaron held out his hand in assent. She went on, looking at him earnestly, “I need you to understand why I worry about you so.”

“I have some idea,” Aaron mumbled, taking his place back on the bed. 

Sally paused, sighing, searching for her next words. After a moment, she straightened her back and stared at her brother head on. 

“You and I are entirely alone in this world.”

Aaron waited, and she spoke, matter-of factly. 

“I cannot bear the thought of losing you to some…” Sally trailed off, breaking her gaze and lifting her hand, “...To some useless, purposeless skirmish. I cannot fathom the idea that I will receive some heartless letter or empty note, explaining to me that you have died in a ditch.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, closing her eyes and steadying her breaths, “You must understand.”

“Of course I do,” Aaron responded softly. There was a brief quiet, and he watched his sister pull something from her pocket: a thin black journal wrapped tightly closed by a stretch of leather. Sally tapped it, blinking. 

“This was given to me by our uncle when I was thirteen. It was mother’s journal,” she said. She looked up at him again, “You knew she had a journal, didn’t you?”

Aaron shook his head, no. 

Sally gave him a small shrug, “It is no matter now, I suppose. Regardless, our uncle gave this to me as a young woman in the hopes that it would instruct me to follow in her footsteps, about how to be a proper lady.” At this, she let out a chuckle, “I don’t think he read the thing, because if he did he would see that Esther’s mind matches her son’s more than her daughter’s.”

Aaron eyed the small book; the way the glow from the candle on his side table reflected dimly on the matte leather. 

“I have been rereading it, and am once again struck by how much you remind me of her,” Sally went on, lifting the book, sighing softly, “I realized I am no more able to stop you from your plans as I am able to stop hers. An impossibility.”

She held up the journal, indicating he take it. Aaron stared at it for a moment more, before reaching out and grabbing it. Sally continued. 

“It should have been yours, I think. But then again Timothy never understood you,” She exhaled loudly, “You will do what you please regardless of what others think, like mother.”

“Sally, she wanted you to have it,” Aaron replied, flipping through the pages, the thin, spidery handwriting so similar to his own,

“I have no use for it.”

“Neither do I,” Aaron looked up from the pages.

Sally pursed her lips, “You will take it, as a reminder of me and your family. It will make me feel better to know you have it in your care.”

Aaron felt an involuntary grin creep across his face, “You want me to think of her before making rash decisions, like a little conscience in my pocket.”

“You may interpret my gift however you want,” Sally mimicked his smile. 

\----

The year dragged on, the spring heated up, and Alexander found himself working to the bone to finish his essays before the sun went down. The weather was too beautiful to spend it holed up in the dorm. 

“It always gets like this around this time of year,” Troup sighed as the pair made their way down the corridors of the dormitories, and down the stairs. He hitched up his bag, “The good weather makes everyone mad. There is a boy in my chemistry class who just stopped showing up, if you can believe. His name is--”

“--Bobby. I am in no danger of failing. I cannot handle your parables today,” Alexander cut him off. He yanked a door open, and ushered them both through. Tiredness pounded behind his eyes. 

“It’s not a fable. It’s the truth!” Troup pulled the door shut behind them, and they stepped into the balmy evening. 

“I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to scare me.”

“You’ve been slipping, I think,” Troup reasoned. “I don’t want you to end up like Failure Edgar.”

Alexander stopped dead, “...Excuse me…?”

“Failure Edgar. He was a Puritan from the last century who--”

“--I said no parables!” Alexander’s face split into a grin. 

Troup lifted a hand, “You asked!”

Hamilton grabbed his arm, urging him forward on the path. Students milled about around them, speaking low. The air was both soft and crackling, filled with energy and the promise of a beautiful summer, and Alexander spoke again against the backdrop of crickets and evening bugs.

“We don’t have time to stop and talk about Failure Edgar right now. I’m sorry I asked. You don’t have to worry about my studies, they’re fine. Besides, we have more important things to worry about,” he said, words peppered with the sound of crunching gravel beneath their feet. 

Troup exhaled, “Yes, yes. The dinner.”

“I don’t know why you’re not more excited.”

“And I don’t know why you _are_ ,” Troup responded, shoving his hands into his pockets, “It’s not going to be the usual crowd, our friends and the like. It’s going to be...I don’t know...important people.”

“You’re nervous?” Alexander asked, and the two turned a corner, heading toward the city center. 

“Of course I am. It was nice of Henry to invite us, but sitting through a dinner with the entire Livingston clan--”

“--And the Jays--” Alexander interjected excitedly. 

“You’re not making it any better,” Troup responded. “You hardly know them, Alex. I don’t know what you think you will accomplish, and how on earth any of this is more important or pressing than appeasing the professors.”

The weekly coach to Elizabethtown loomed in the near distance and the horses stomped their hooves impatiently. Alexander’s heart began to race, and he lowered his voice, leaning into his friend, “This is how fortunes are changed, Bobby. Meeting new people-- putting yourself into uncomfortable situations-- one has to experience a bit of discomfort in order to progress in life.”

“If the discomfort involves Dayton making a fool of himself, I wish to pass.”

Alexander stopped him again, “This could be beneficial. You mustn’t look at it like just a dinner. You must see it as...an _extension_ of our studies.”

Troup reached out and lifted himself into the carriage, “You’re just looking for a way to rectify the _last_ dinner. Though I doubt anyone even remembers you were there, given how you spend most of the evening with--”

Hamilton slammed the door shut, cutting his friend off. 

“ _Whatever_ the case may be,” Alexander settled into his seat, facing the other teenager with a glare, “We have to present ourselves as respectable, promising students, eager to learn about the changing political climate. This is how it works, Bobby. All we need is one person to vouch for us, and we’re in.”

“In what?”

Hamilton pretended not to hear him, staring out the window at the blur of buildings and trees. 

“I think one of the cushions needs to be re-stuffed,” The other teenager squirmed in the seat.

“Should I introduce myself directly to Mr. Jay, or would that be too forward?” Alexander brought his gaze from the window to an indistinct spot in front of his face. He frowned, “He met me already, but does he _know_ me? I worry if I leave it up to Henry or even Mr. Livingston something will go terribly wrong. And what do I say to a man who _has_ met me, but might not _remember_ me? How embarrassing. Bobby, what are you doing?”

“The _seat--_ it’s--”

“--Just be still. The driver will kick us out,” Alexander said. He chewed his lip, putting a hand to his mouth. 

Troup interrupted his thoughts, “I suppose there’s always the chance that properly introducing yourself to Mr. Jay gains you nothing. You are just a student. What does a representative to Congress need with a twenty year old?”

“I have thoughts,” Hamilton pointed to his temple. 

“What makes you think he’ll listen to you? I’m sure plenty of people have thoughts. I’m sure Mr. Jay spends most of his days sifting through peoples’ thoughts,” Troup countered, unbuttoning his vest to loosen it, “It’s miserably hot. Can you open the window?”

Hamilton obeyed. He responded, “It’s easier to get someone’s attention when you are speaking to their face, and not through a letter.”

“Harder to ignore, you mean,” Troup muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Troup fanned his shirt, closing his eyes against the cool even breeze that filtered in through the cracked window. Hamilton pulled out a small book and began reading, determined to make the most of the hours spent travelling. 

It was long after midnight when the two teenagers felt the carriage lurch and stop in the main square; Troup let out a grunt and a swear, losing his balance on the uncomfortable cushion and dropping onto the carriage floor. Hamilton lifted him up, still half-asleep.

“I think...we’re here.”

“Yes, do you think?” Troup grumbled, buttoning his vest and brushing himself off. 

They tipped the driver and he was off, leaving the pair standing alone in front of the inn. 

“Woods’ or Hyer’s?” Alexander asked, looking around at the empty streets. 

Troup lifted his gaze, “Whatever one this is. I have no preference. What time is it, do you think?”

“No idea,” Alexander walked on, squinting at the sign, “Oh, it’s Hyer’s. He’s going to be so thrilled to see his favorite patrons.”

“I doubt he’s even awake.”

They knocked on the door and a servant answered, eyeing them suspiciously, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, hello. We need a room. We’ll take whatever you’ve got.” Alexander answered.

The servant narrowed his eyes, “Are you two...students?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t help you. Sorry.” The servant stepped back, flame from his candle flickering in the movement, and slammed the door. 

Alexander’s mouth hung open, and he pounded on the door again, “Excuse me. Why not?”

“Let’s just go,” Troup sighed, “I’m certain Woods’ will be more than accommodating. Don’t be so loud, Alex, you’ll wake half the town.”

“This is unacceptable,” Hamilton grumbled. He looked up at the façade, raising his voice, “You are losing out on a sale, sir!”

He felt Troup grab his shoulder as several people in the nearby vicinity lit candles in their windows to see what the commotion was. Alexander’s face burned at the outburst. 

“Good Lord. Is there _any_ way you two could keep it down?” Came a voice from above them. 

Hamilton looked up, adjusting his gaze in the dim light. Troup’s face cracked into a grin, and he lifted a hand in greeting. 

“Hello, Aaron. What a pleasant surprise.”

Aaron leaned out the second story window, voice low and strained, a small smile creeping across his features, “Give me one minute. Stay there. I will be down in a moment.” He lifted a finger, disappeared, and shut the window. 

Alexander threw his hands up, “Great. He gets a room, and we get denied? Where is the sense in that? What does Hyer have against--”

The front door to the inn cracked open slowly and silently, and Burr appeared, sliding out through the thin opening. 

Hamilton eyed him, “What _are_ you doing here? ”

“Sleeping.” Aaron answered smartly. 

Alexander closed his eyes, “ _No_. I mean why are you in town, staying here? I thought Hyer hated you.”

“I had to pay him off,” Burr explained calmly. “I am in town to see Matt on some...business. Anyway, Hyer made me promise not to invite any of my friends. My ‘gang of hooligans’, he called them. And I’m not allowed to bring any of the barmaids to bed.”

Hamilton exhaled; shook his head. Troup cut in, whispering and pointing to the second story, “Can you...do you think we could stay in your room tonight? Would Hyer notice? We’d slip out early. Before sunrise, even.”

Alexander hit him on the shoulder, “Bobby, no.”

Aaron ignored him, “I think we can manage that. Hyer is a heavy sleeper. Probably drunk and passed out, at this point.”

“No, we cannot stay. We will just go to Woods’, thank you,” Hamilton interrupted. 

“I’m not carrying my bag halfway across town,” Troup whined, looking over at his travelling companion. “I”m tired. My muscles hurt from that awful seat. Please, Alex.”

Hamilton turned his gaze to Burr, scanning him, “And how do you expect to get us inside? We can’t just waltz in through the main floor. And we don’t have money to throw around, either.”

Aaron grabbed Troup’s bag, and indicated his head to the left, “Follow me.”

He led them to a patch of trees obscuring the side of the building. Hamilton looked around, eyes darting, making out odd and frightful shapes in the dark. He looked up again, and saw another small window, wide open, glowing yellow from a lit candle; the last in a row of darkened ones. 

“What is the plan, here, exactly?” 

Burr pointed, “Do you see the tree, there? We can climb that and slide in through the window. That’s my room, on the end.”

Troup breathed a sigh of relief, “ _Perfect_ ,” adjusting his bag so it rested against his back. He didn’t wait to hear Alexander’s protestations as he walked forward toward the tree. He hoisted himself up onto the lower branches and with only slight, grunting difficulty, made his way to the top via the thick, gnarled stumps that covered the old oak.

“See? Easy. If Bobby can do it, sure you can,” Aaron smiled at the other teenager. 

Alexander dropped his voice, sarcastic, “Why does it not surprise me that you are practiced at sneaking into bedrooms?”

“Because I am. Go. I will spot you,” Burr put a hand on his back and urged him forward. 

Hamilton stopped himself, turning, “...And you’re certain we won’t get caught? And thrown out? I really can’t afford the embarrassment.”

“You truly cannot, if the rumors are to be believed,” Burr replied quickly, “Now just _go_ before someone comes along.”

Alexander sighed and followed Troup’s route, reaching out to grip the branches deftly. Aaron’s eyes stayed glued to him as he reached the top, before he followed suit. 

He made it to the window, and pushed off the top branch, reaching the window sill and inching through it. 

Hamilton watched him, impressed, “ _Well_. That was simpler than I thought.”

Burr wiped his hands and shut the window, and turned to his new guests, lifting a hand to the small, messy room, ‘Welcome. Find a spot and settle in.”

Troup looked around, raising an eyebrow at the piles of clothes and books scattered around. He searched for his words carefully, “Can we...I mean-- how long have you been staying here…?”

“You don’t have to be polite. I know it’s a mess. I’ve been here for two days,” Aaron picked up one of the candles from the nightstand, and brought it over to a different candle on a small side table, lighting it.

“Well, I just mean-- I certainly don’t mind sleeping on the floor-- but--where?” Troup tried, politely. 

“Bobby won’t say it because he’s too kind. There is not enough room for two to sleep comfortably on this floor. Hand me one of those coins,” Hamilton pointed to a pile of silver on the nightstand. Burr acquiesced, watching him. Alexander held it aloft, “Heads, Bobby shares the bed with you. Tails, and I do. Count to three.”

Burr absentmindedly nudged a pile of books out of the way with his foot, making space, and Troup’s shoulders sagged. 

“Alexander, I don’t care where I sleep. I’ll take the floor, please. I’m too tired for this.”

Alexander flipped the coin and caught it, slapping it against his left hand. He peeked, then grinned, relieved, “Oh, thank God.”

Troup craned his neck, “Well?”

“You will have your wish. Find a pile and get comfortable,” Hamilton ordered. 

“Alright, it’s not that bad,” Burr added, somewhat hurt. He swept the covers on the bed back and crawled in, “I’ve been here for several days, remember.”

Alexander removed his jacket and vest, “Why are you here, again?”

Troup mimicked his friend, staring dolefully at the floor. He reached out and swept a pile of stockings to the side, lowering himself and sitting with his back against the wall. 

Aaron paused before answering, scooting closer to the wall to make space to Alexander. Then, “I am meeting Matt tomorrow to try and convince him to come to Cambridge with me. To join the army.” He spoke quickly, turning over to face the wall, “Good night.”

“Wait...what?” Alexander inquired, getting under the covers.

“Alex...can it wait until tomorrow?” Troup muttered from the floor. “Aaron can write to us about his intentions.”

Burr looked at the boy next to him, “I’m joining the army.”

Hamilton’s face cracked into an unfriendly grin.

Aaron stiffened, “Is something funny?”

“Boys, it must be nearly three,” Troup shifted against the hard wooden planks, grumpily. 

Alexander dropped his voice even lower, _“You’re_ funny. You’re not joining the army. Is that what you tell girls?”

Burr’s mouth opened, and nothing came out. Hamilton went on, yanking the covers to straighten them. He rolled onto his side, facing the other boy, expectant.

“I’m...yes, I am. This week. I’m getting Matt and we’re going to Cambridge.”

“You’re... serious.” Alexander searched him for several silent seconds. Then, “...Why?”

Troup tapped the floor with the palm of his hand, “Gentlemen. I’m begging you.”

Even in the cool night air Aaron felt his face burn, and his defenses rise, “Because there’s more to life than sitting safely inside an office. Especially now.”

“Oh. You mean the business in Bunker HIll,” Hamilton concluded smartly. “Yes, I read about that. Terrible. But unavoidable. Don’t take this the wrong way but I don’t see how you will make a difference. What do you think will happen when you reach Massachusetts?”

Burr’s pulse increased, “I didn’t ask for advice.”

Alexander yawned, and moved to a position on his back, “I am simply saying--” he shot Aaron a look, “--Well, you’re not exactly experienced. They’re not going to throw you out onto the front lines or promote you immediately. They’re going to make you clean latrines and dig ditches before you see any kind of action. I mean this sincerely, you and I are too small. I spoke about this exact thing with Ned--”

“--I don’t care what you talked about with Ned,” Aaron cut in, “Ned doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him.”

A balled up stocking came whizzing by the bed, accompanied by another angry whisper from Troup, “Would you _please_ be quiet?”

Hamilton made a face, and dropped his voice even lower, propping his head in the crook of his elbow, he leaned closer, purposeful, “You read the papers, like me. You saw the reports, heard about the action. Let me guess. You felt like you were missing out?”

“Or maybe I don’t want to waste my time arguing with anonymous pamphleteers in local newspapers,” Burr hissed back. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

“Yes but are your thoughts on the war defined?” Alexander retorted. “Or are you just another restless youth jumping at the first sign of action without knowing why?”

The words reverberated around Aaron’s head and he clenched his teeth. He managed, “Who are you to say?”

Hamilton’s demeanor shifted instantaneously, “If you are not busy, you should join Bobby and I at the Livingston’s tomorrow for dinner. I think you’ll be able to further sort your thoughts out on the matter, to make a more informed decision.”

_“I am informed!”_

“Please keep your voice down, I think I hear Bobby snoring.”

Burr inhaled, counted to three. 

“Your concern about my wellbeing is touching, Little Hamilton, but I will be fine. I don’t need or want your brand new, impressively upper-class friends trying to talk me out of a decision that I have made after my own intense deliberation, thank you.”

“Be that way.”

“I will.”

Alexander shifted, “Fine.”

Aaron’s cheeks burned again. He lay on his back, staring defiantly at the ceiling, counting the cracks. He closed his eyes after another few seconds, feeling the other boy’s curious stare. 

After several tense minutes, Hamilton spoke again, “I’m just trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Burr answered rapidly, speaking over him. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it.”

“I was thinking about it too, you know.”

“No you weren’t.”

“You’re so mad,” Hamilton pressed him. In the dark Burr could hear the smile creep back into his voice, “That’s how I know I’m right.”

“You’re worse than a child.”

Troup grunted in his sleep again; Hamilton stifled a yawn, closing his eyes and rolling onto his back. He spoke further, “The people of Boston are not very welcoming. They do not take kindly to outsiders coming in. I should know.”

Burr chewed the inside of his cheek, then, “If you want me to put in a good word for you, just say so.”

To his surprise, Alexander let out a low laugh; Aaron felt the bed shake, watching the boy next to him cover his mouth to stifle it. In the next second, he caught Hamilton’s bright gaze, who turned and looked at him, sharp grin still fixed to his mouth. 

“You’re so funny. You say things with the utmost seriousness but they really are absurd,” Hamilton brought a finger to his eye, wiping away some mirthful wetness. He broke his gaze, and shut his eyes, exhaling softly, “I really should be getting some sleep now. Good night.”

Burr searched him again, indignation and confusion rising and falling inside his chest like a wave.

Sleep-- troubled and peppered by the movement of Alexander’s body next to him throughout the night-- evaded him almost entirely, and Burr woke the next morning already nursing a headache.

He opened his eyes and blinked, looking around; Aaron’s guests were gone before he woke. 

He marveled at how they were able to keep quiet, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He lay with his eyes closed for a bit longer, in no hurry to start his day, the weight of it all crashing in on him within seconds of waking. 

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way to the wash basin, cleaning his face and then dressing. A note caught his eye-- _Thank you for your hospitality, or should I say your Secrecy. -AH ._ Burr grinned at it, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. 

In minutes he had packed his belongings and headed out into the town toward the meeting point he and Matt had decided on. He paused in front of a vendor and bought several pieces of fruit to share, hoping a full stomach would help calm his nerves. He bit into a pear and kept walking, past the shops and buildings that began to come alive in the early morning light, locking his eyes on his destination: the tiny, one-room church at the edge of the town. 

He came upon it and found Matt leaning against the side. At the sight of Aaron, he pushed off the building and greeted him. 

\----

Alexander tapped his fingers rapidly against the shining wood of the nearby bar cart, seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair, eyeing the room slowly. He picked out the faces of men he’d vaguely recognized as important, influential, men who seemed to deport themselves differently. He studied them and mimicked their stances, straightening his back and tilting his chin slightly, puffing out his chest, inhaling. He took a sip of the wine he’d been offered, kicking himself internally for not asking what kind it was. 

“Dinner should be starting soon. Hope you like lamb,” Henry muttered over his own drink. 

Hamilton looked up at him, “How can you stand there so casually?”

“My parents throw parties like this all the time,” Henry responded, swallowing. “God, I didn’t even want to come until I heard my sisters were. If I didn’t make an appearance I’d never hear the end of it. Do you want another glass?”

“Yes,” Alexander downed the last of his drink, and Henry disappeared into the crowd of well-dressed socialites and statesmen. He took a deep breath again, looking for the man who’d shown a modicum of interest in him. 

Henry returned, weaving his way back through the bodies, “Christ. He’s invited half the Hudson Valley. Stand up and come outside with me. Troup’s out there by himself and looks like he’s bored stupid.”

“He’ll be fine. I want to stay inside a bit longer.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, “Are you kidding me? It’s stifling in here. They’re lighting a bonfire outside. Let’s just get some air for a moment.”

Alexander gave him a look, “Five minutes.”

“Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find him.”

Alexander sighed, standing, “John Jay. I met him last year briefly but did not get to have a proper conversation with him. I was hoping I could find him and re-introduce myself.”

Henry tugged at his sleeve, “He’s almost certainly with Sarah. Let’s go.”

He pulled Alexander back through the familiar house, down the long hallway, past the rooms he’d grown to know over the past several years, and he felt a twinge of nostalgia. They made it to the back yard where the cool breeze lingered, intertwining with the low, polite chatter of the party guests. The two boys found Troup standing by himself, looking bored.

Bobby turned, hearing his friends, “There you two are. You missed the commotion. Henry, one of your father’s Congress friends was relaying a story in which he accidentally stepped in horse excrement on his way home from his office in the city.”

“Wonderful,” Henry replied sarcastically.

Hamilton grunted, chewing his lip and crossing his arms, “Doesn’t seem befitting of a Congressman.”

Henry motioned for a servant to bring him a drink, “You don’t know these men. It’s exactly the type of behavior you’d expect.”

Alexander strained to hear the conversations around him, blocking out the sounds of his two friends. He barely heard their voices as they carried on-- resuming his studies of the men and women around him. 

Muted colors blended with somber faces; brows creased in thought, listening, talking. Few than half the men wore their hair powdered. He studied their shoes-- most were scuffed and worn, covering stained stockings, or paired with frayed jackets. His eye caught recognizable faces: Mulligan holding court in the corner of the yard, notably. Hamilton internally processed his course of action. 

Troup’s voice game floating back into his mind. 

“...Well I just thought a thank-you would be in order. I thought maybe some fresh fruit would be nice.”

“My mother explicitly said no gifts. Besides, she doesn’t need more fruit, Bobby, she needs sugar and new yards of fabric,” Henry reasoned. 

Alexander tried to find his way back into their conversation, and failed, bringing the glass to his mouth for another sip. Mulligan’s laughter rang out, echoing off the trees and sending a flock of crows into the air. 

He felt a tap on his arm, and turned to see Henry grinning, “Looks like we’re boring Alex.”

“Yes...I mean, no-- I’m sorry. I am just...distracted.” Hamilton stared back down at the grass, digging the tip of his shoe into the dirt. 

“We can tell,” Henry said between another swallow of his drink. 

“I have been working on some letters, lately, deep into the night. It’s the only free time I have. They need to be perfect and I just don’t want to sound like a fool when I send them to the Gazette, Which is why it is imperative I discuss them with Mr. Jay.” Alexander sighed, looking up again just in time to see Bobby roll his eyes.

“A busybody.” Troup added. “Rivington’s is loyalist trash.”

Henry made a noise, “Not Rivington’s. Oh, Alex… you _are_ desperate.”

Alexander pulled some of the writings from his back pocket.

“Let me see the paper,” Troup held out his hand, and took a step towards his friend. Alexander snatched them further from his reach, and Troup stopped in his tracks, annoyed.

“Well _someone_ needs to read it,” he went on. “You might as well at least tell us what you’re saying, if you don’t want us to read the words themselves.”

Alexander grimaced, paused, then spoke, holding the paper aloft, “How does this sound? _‘_ _I take the liberty to trouble you with some remarks on a matter which to me appears of not a little importance; doubting not that you will use your influence in Congress to procure a remedy for the evil I shall mention, if you think the considerations I shall urge are of that weight they seem in my judgment to possess.’”_

Henry blinked several times, staring at his friends, expressionless. Then, “It’s....er...substantial.”

Hamilton pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, “But is it _good_? I mean, is it attention worthy without being...I don’t know. High-handed.”

“I should think so. I should also think that with the amount of mail Mr. Jay receives, yours will not be the most extreme he will read, perhaps even that same day.” Henry offered. Next to him, Bobby nodded eagerly, wearing an expression as if to say, _I told you so._

Alexander paused for a moment, thinking. A low tinkling of music from inside the house travelled out into the yard, and several partygoers raised their glasses in appreciation. He spoke again, “I have been replaying in my head our conversation of several months ago, about the British crown. And war.”

“And?” Troup answered, before Henry could interject. 

“Do either of you feel...a sort or...blind restlessness? The passions of young men are worked up...and I worry that this energy will be mishandled in the multitudes.” Alexander said. He took another sip, let the wine burn his tongue, swallowed, and continued, “You know as well as I that most people don’t let reason guide them. I just cannot see any way around some kind of conflict.”

Henry made a face, letting out a low chuckle and muttering beneath his breath, ”Jay’s gonna _love_ you.”

“I am thinking of our last conversation.” Hamilton held both hands in front of him, staring at Troup, “On one side, we have a well-intentioned disdain for tyranny and oppression. On the other side, we have a disregard for all leadership, regardless of legitimacy.”

Troup nodded, blinking, “And I agree. But you think Mr. Jay will have some control in this? If the people are so disinclined to listen to leadership...well. I don’t think I have to paint the picture.”

“I think he has some influence with the _Tories_. I am just expressing some fears.”

Henry downed his drink, smacking his lips, “You seem more ingratiated with the Tories than he does, sending letters to the blasted Gazette.”

Troup closed his eyes, and held up his own hand, “Let me make sure I am understanding, Alex. You are writing to Mr. Jay not on behalf of our fellow, like-minded New-Yorkers, but on behalf of the Tories?”

Hamilton looked at him, nodding slowly, “Have I not made that clear?”

“For God’s sake, Alex, _no,_ you have not. What on earth do you hope to accomplish aligning yourself with such a cause?”

“I am saying that Jay may use his influence with the Tories to help bridge the gap of understanding between the two parties,” Alexander finished his own glass of wine in another long gulp. He waited, steadying his thoughts as the alcohol muddied them.

“It’s perfect, Bobby. It will appease both loyalists and the more rebellious. A favorable idea of Jay’s impartiality must be impressed upon the tory New Englanders, for example, so that they do not get fearful of an armed uprising. Believe me, Bobby, it is a matter of consequence and deserves serious attention.”

“New England,” Henry cackled, tilting his head back. The piano music hit a crescendo. Henry’s face turned pink, “Alex, you’re brilliantly funny.”

Henry’s words bolted through him, and Hamilton shot him a murderous look, “I am not trying to be funny.”

Troup looked around the yard, then back to his friend, “I follow your logic, Alex. But I fear your course of action to be convoluted.” 

The music wafted in and out of their conversation as more and more people headed toward the open doors to the house, following the sounds. The three teenagers stood quietly for several seconds.

Hamilton resumed his stare at his own scuffed shoes. 

“Boys!” The three teenagers looked up to see Mr. Livingston hailing them from the porch, “Come inside. Henry, come watch your sisters play piano!”

“Oh for the love of God…” Henry muttered, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. 

“Come on, we don’t want to be rude,” Troup reasoned, tipping his head in the direction of the older man, who beckoned to them.

Henry’s shoulders sagged, “He’s not going to shut up unless we come. Let’s go inside. I don’t want to hear about it in the morning. Alex, you alright?”

Hamilton blinked at the sound of his name, turning, “I am. I will be along shortly. I want to take the cool air a bit longer. Do tell Jay I wish to speak with him.”

Troup patted his friend on the back, nodding, following Henry. Hamilton watched as the crowd of statesmen and their wives disappeared from the lawn into the warm, brightly lit drawing rooms of the Livingston manor, a new song ringing out in a young girls’ lilting voice. 

He turned and faced the setting sun. He sighed, tipped his wine glass and emptied the dregs of it onto the grass as a different chorus of night bugs began to chirp. 

_I wish there was a War._

“Excuse me-- you--!”

Hamilton started, blinking and looking around. 

“Over here!”

The teenager spun; it was a female voice, low and strained. Alexander craned his neck, squinting at the nearby bushes. He tried to make out a shadowy figure in the dim light, answering, “Who is there?”

“I’m Henry’s sister, Kitty,” the voice replied, “-- this is terribly embarrassing.”

Alexander walked over, “Where are you? I can’t see you. Is something wrong?”

“...You could say that,” Kitty responded again, sheepishly. She sighed, “I tore my gown on one of the trees. I didn’t realize until it was too late. It’s hideously ruined. My stockings are showing. I can’t go back into the house in such a state-- father will have a fit--”

“--Are you--” Alexander moved around the bush, “--Where _are_ you?”

“Don’t look! I’m indecent, please!”

At this, he spotted a pair of lilac shoes sticking out from beneath a large, flowering myrtle tree, flanked by thick, lush rhododendron bushes, obscuring the woman entirely. He stopped, “Alright. I won’t come any closer.”

“You are a gentleman, bless you,” Kitty breathed a sigh of relief, “I need you to run inside and head upstairs to my mother’s room, and grab a frock, any one. I do not care which. Just so I can cover up this wretched thing.”

Alexander paused, “Are you...certain I should be rummaging around in your mother’s things? It might be worse if I get caught doing that than if you just try and sneak in.”

“You’d have me wandering around the yard with my undergarments hanging out?”

Hamilton blushed, “No-- that’s not--”

“--Then _please_. Up the stairs, the last bedroom on the left.” Kitty cut him off before he could argue. 

Alexander exhaled, rubbing his eyes and thinking for a moment, then silently made his way back to the house. 

He crept along the side, beneath the brightly lit windows displaying the party within. He followed the thin trail between the shrubbery and the building itself, finally coming upon a back door. He jiggled the handle, cracked it, and slipped in, as silent as he could be, wincing at a creaking hinge. 

Hamilton found himself in the empty kitchen facing a dying fire and a few half-empty cups. He looked around for the exit toward the rest of the house, despairing as he noticed the only way to the stairs was past the packed drawing room. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head, thinking. 

“Couldn’t take the singing anymore, eh?” Came Jay’s voice. Hamilton’s eyes snapped open, and the older man walked past him casually, up to the counter, and began rifling through a bread basket. He continued, pleasantly, “I do love when Sarah sings, but she’s been practicing with me every day for the past week and I fear if I hear any more hymnals I will renounce Christianity altogether. Hamilton, right?”

Alexander caught his breath, nodding. 

Jay went on, fishing out a small biscuit, “Did you want any of these?”

“No--sir.”

“What are you doing in the kitchen?” Jay asked, offering a small smile. “You look like you’ve been caught.”

Hamilton felt his face heat up again, “I was-- there’s--” he faltered, his eyes darting towards the window glancing at the bushes where Kitty waited, “--I was just revisiting the house. So many memories here. I was overcome, and got lost.”

Jay scanned him, unconvinced, “Right.”

Alexander fidgeted. Jay went on, “Why do you keep looking out that window? Is someone out there?”

“No,” he lied quickly. 

Jay bit into the biscuit, “Have you seen Sarah’s younger sister, Kitty?”

Hamilton felt his muscles tense, “No.”

“I see,” Jay responded. Hamilton searched him, the wry smile reappearing. The older man took another bite, “Well. I should be getting back to the party, I suppose. Will you accompany me? I keep hearing wonderful things about your essays, and should like to discuss some things with you-- if you don’t mind. I think it would do for some new, fresh perspectives--”

Hamilton let his shoulders sag; bit the inside of his cheek. 

“Did you hear me?” Jay reiterated. 

“Yes. I--”

A loud cheer from the drawing room interrupted them, followed by Sarah’s voice, calling for her husband. Jay looked around, then back at the teenager expectantly. He waited for a few seconds, then spoke again, finishing the biscuit in another bite, “Well. I suppose that is my cue. When you are done...whatever it is you are doing...do come find me. I could use the company.”

Hamilton watched him disappear back down the hall, and swore under his breath, kicking the wall behind him. 

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, resting it against the wall, organizing his thoughts again. 

He exhaled loudly, opening his eyes again, and fixing them on the servants’ staircase in the corner of the kitchen. In several minutes he’d managed to find the bedroom, and a large trunk at the base of the bed. He swung it open and fished through the garments, pulling out one that caught his eye, shimmering in the dim light. He folded it as best he could and made his way back out to the yard with the large bundle under his arm. 

“Finally,” Kitty breathed, holding out a slim arm from the bushes to take the dress, “Did you travel to the bloody East Indies?”

Hamilton huffed, “I got caught. I had to shake Jay before I could get upstairs.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t care. You should hear the ribald things he and Sarah say.”

Alexander turned his back, listening to the rustle of branches as Kitty dressed. 

She emerged several seconds later, torn dress draped over her forearm. 

“Well?” Kitty spun, and Alexander eyed her, heart racing. 

“It looks good,” he managed, clearing his throat, eyeing the loose tie around her slim waist. 

She turned back around and indicated to the ribbons, “Tie me up, would you?”

Alexander obeyed, mouth dry, fingers fumbling against the tight stays. 

Quickly, please,” Kitty breathed, somewhat irritated, “Just tie a small knot. It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is one of mother’s favorites. I hope she doesn’t mind. The color is lovely, it matches my shoes.”

Hamilton retailed his senses and finished the tie deftly, “There.”

Kitty turned, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She looked down at the gown, marveling at the shimmer, lifting her shoe, “It does look good with the lilac. You seem to know your way around women’s fashion.” She eyed Hamilton again, “Are you a tailor’s son?”

Alexander shrank, “No.”

“Where are you from?”

“I am a student at King’s,” Hamilton skirted the question. 

Kitty sighed, “Of course. You’re one of Henry’s friends. I’ve seen you around before. Promise me you won’t say anything about this to him.”

“Of course not. I don’t think anyone saw you. Your secret is safe with me.” Alexander replied, trying to lean against a nearby tree, and missing. He caught himself before he fell, talking over the misstep, 

“How gentlemanly,” Kitty muttered, fixing a loose strand of hair. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, “My father said if I wasn’t married by the time I turned twenty-three he’d send me to a convent. We’re not even Catholic. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t believe what? That I’m not married, or that my father is a liar?”

Hamilton’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, “That you’re...I mean-- not--”

Kitty cut him off with a pretty, ringing laugh, “I’m sorry, I’m teasing you. You just look so tense and nervous. You really shouldn’t let that crowd in there get inside your head and thoughts. They’re not worth the trouble. Take it from me. Go find somewhere else to be, like I did.”

Kitty looked at him sideways, again, waiting. Alexander shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Aren’t you curious where I was?”

“It’s really none of my business,” Hamilton answered, “I don’t want to pry.”

“Oh, yes you do. I can see it,” Kitty grinned at him, and Alexander felt his face warm, “I was with a male friend. There. It wasn’t untoward-- just a bit of fun. But do you think my father would ever understand such a thing? No, of course not. He’s quite old-fashioned in that way. Women should have fun, as men do. Angelica Schuyler is allowed to run around New York, causing an absolute scandal, but I am not? That doesn’t seem fair one bit. Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t… I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. And I think you should listen to your father,” Alexander tried again. 

Kitty shot him a look, “Do _you_ listen to _your_ father?”

Alexander opened his mouth, but no words came out. Kitty talked over him again, straightening a stocking. 

“Never mind,” Kitty straightened back up, studying him for a third, and more intense, time. Alexander shifted, and a grin spread across her face, “...Did you say your name was Alexander?”

“Yes.”

She put a hand to her mouth, scanning him, “Oh...that’s right. Then I think I do recognize you. You’re the one who ruined that poor Tory girl, Jane Douglas. Her father whipped her senseless for it, poor thing. You really should be more sensitive and discreet about that kind of thing, Alexander.”

Kitty tsk tsk’d, and Alexander’s words came rushing back. 

“What? I never-- who said such a thing?” He followed her as she made her way across the lawn, falling in step, “I didn’t _ruin_ anyone. That is a lie.”

Kitty ignored him, hitching her skirt to step over a small puddle.

Alexander kept pace, heartbeat quickening, “How on earth did it get back to you? She was-- it was one bloody hour. Hardly anything to be-- slow down, would you? She was Burr’s friend, he brought her--”

“--Oh,” Kitty stopped abruptly, rolling her eyes. She placed a hand on the banister at the base of the porch stairs “That is not a vote of confidence. There is your first problem. Honestly, Alexander, you really need to be more careful with whom you commiserate.”

Hamilton felt his mouth go dry, defenses rising. He lifted a hand aimlessly, “Well, I _thank you_ for the advice.”

“There is no need for sarcasm, I am only trying to help,” Kitty blinked. She indicated toward the party inside, “Honestly, for someone hanging around this lot you certainly don’t _act_ like them. Jane Douglas, of all the girls--” She covered her face, chuckling, “--Of course she’d get mixed up with Burr and his strange friends. I can give you my advice, if you’ll take it.”

She flashed him a pretty smile, and Alexander felt the strange mix of annoyance and attraction flare up again. Kitty raised an eyebrow. 

“Well?”

“Fine. I’m listening,” Hamilton exhaled, leaning on the opposing banister. 

Kitty reached out and touched his cheek, “New York isn’t as big as you think it is.”

\----

It was useless trying to concentrate for the rest of the night, Hamilton realized. Every time he stood to refill his drink, or rounded a corner, or heard a commotion on the lawn, he looked to see if it was Kitty and for a split second imagined her coming back to talk to him. She’d disappeared again after re-entering the house, and Hamilton knew better than to ask too many questions-- but it burned him.

“Alexander--”

Jay appeared in the doorway, and Hamilton straightened his back, “Yes?”

“Are you...busy…?” Jay looked around at the empty room, suddenly breaking into chuckles, “What on earth are you doing in here? Why is it that every time I come upon you you’re completely alone?”

“I was just…” Hamilton exhaled, gesticulating aimlessly, “...I don’t know. Thinking, I suppose. I hope the Livingstons don’t think me rude. I am just tired.”

Jay leaned against the doorway, “They’re far too distracted to care. Although I don’t know how thrilled Livingston would be to know you’re snooping around his office unaccompanied.”

“I’m not snooping,” Hamilton replied, defensive. To his relief, Jay’s face cracked into another grin. 

“ _Relax_ , Alexander.”

Hamilton fell back against a desk, rubbing his eyes, “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve been having.”

“I guess the party’s moved into my father’s office…?” Henry stuck his head in the small room. Behind him, the face of a student Hamilton only vaguely recognized, “...Alexander, for God’s sake. You’re missing all the fun. Smith was just about to tell us a great story about Dayton’s antics at college.”

“I am feeling ill,” Hamilton lied, avoiding Jay’s gaze. 

“You haven’t even heard the story yet,” Smith muttered from behind Henry. 

“Is a story about Dayton supposed to make me feel less ill?” Alexander shot back. “Let me guess. It has something to do with his inability to act like a normal human being?”

Smith slipped in, face full of purpose, “Almost.”

Hamilton watched helplessly as the other teenager made himself comfortable on a window seat, adjusting some pillows behind him. He looked from Smith, to Jay, who wore a look of polite interest. Henry followed his friend and sat next to him. 

“Apparently-- and this can’t leave the room, mind you--” Smith pointed to each of them, “--Dayton was.... _propositioned_...but an older member of the faculty. It was covered up. I only know because I live in the dorm next to his, and we talk.”

Hamilton tensed, skin flushed, words strained, “Is this really an appropriate story?” His eyes darted from Henry to Jay, indicating they quiet. 

Smith went on, blithely, “I told Dayton Paterson was an old pervert, but did he listen to me? No, of course not. But you all probably know that about him.”

Jay raised his eyebrows, “Surely it must have been a misunderstanding? I highly doubt the College of New Jersey would allow such a thing to happen under Witherspoon’s watch.”

Alexander looked from Jay to the other two teenagers, “Right. Yes. I agree with Mr. Jay. I think spreading malicious gossip about members of faculty is--”

“--Oh, Witherspoon doesn’t even know half of what goes on,” Smith interjected. “Last week between ten and twenty students signed a petition allowing them to graduate early so that they can travel to Cambridge, to take up arms. You should have seen his face.”

“Witherspoon is a friend to the patriots, I don’t think he’d take issue with that,” Jay replied, brushing a bit of dust from his jacket.

“Smith thinks they all want to get away from Paterson,” Henry said through suppressed laughter. “They’re more afraid of the curriculum than they are standing in front of a musket.”

At this, Jay’s face cracked into another smile, and he chuckled, “They might be right about that.”

“Look, if Ogden and Burr can do it, what’s to say someone else can’t?” Smith added. 

A rapidfire popping of fireworks interrupted them; flashes of red and yellow cast strange shapes on the walls of the office. Hamilton felt the reverberations in his chest. 

“What did Ogden and Burr do?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

Smith turned his gaze, “Joined the army! Everyone is talking about it. Apparently his uncle raised a holy hell. Came barging into Witherspoon’s office one day accusing him of filling students’ heads with fantasies. Personally I think Edwards is fighting a losing battle-- nearly every student our age is getting wrapped up in the Lexington business that happened back in April. Who can concentrate on essays at a time like this?”

“Well,” Jay interjected in a moderating voice, “It won’t do to ignore your studies entirely. Those boys sound a bit like rudderless ships.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alexander responded emphatically, raising himself off the desk, gaze landing on Jay.

Henry shot him a look, “As if you weren’t interested in joining.”

“There is more to army life than fighting, you know,” Jay looked at each of the teenagers. He went on, patiently, “Fighting is only half of it. There are horse-masters, drummers, cooks, folks to man the ammunition and guns-- they need builders, scribes, aides-de camp--”

“--Sounds terribly boring,” Smith interrupted. 

“Maybe so, but necessary,” Jay reasoned, against another rapid popping of fireworks and cheers. 

Hamilton tapped his foot absentmindedly against the floor, studying it intently. 

“Whatever the case is-- I know what _I’d r_ ather be doing,” Smith continued, lifting his chin slightly. 

“Do you two boys mind if I speak to Alexander for a moment? It will only take a bit. Tell Sarah and your father I will be back outside shortly,” Jay said, nodding his head in the direction of the door. Henry and Smith acquiesced, and made their way back down the hallway, voices fading intermittently. 

“I’m...sorry. About them,” Alexander offered, somewhat embarrassed. 

“Nothing to apologize for. I’ve known Henry for a long time. Brilliant, but he does love a good scandal. Are you still feeling ill?” 

“No-- I--”

“--You needn’t be polite with me, I will only be a moment,” Jay smiled again, “I just wanted to let you know how impressed I am with your letters-- you’re the boy who writes for _Rivingston’s_ , correct? I had planned on speaking with you earlier but it has been so deliriously busy with Congress reconvening last minute. I am positively inundated with all manner of nonsense, these days. It was refreshing to see a young person write with such clarity and nuance.”

Hamilton’s heart raced, “You think so?”

“I do,” Jay answered. He indicated toward the hallway where Smith and Henry had been moments before, “So many boys your age can’t grasp it-- full of vigor and energy, but not quite sure why. How does the saying go...they are unable to see the forest for the trees, so to speak.”

Alexander paused, shoving his hands in his pockets, digging his thumbnail into the calloused skin on his middle finger. He let the pain shoot through his joints and up his arms, waiting. 

“I think, if you are amenable, I could find you a position as a staff member or a writer for someone. I know a few generals and congressmen who could use an energetic--”

“--Yes,” Hamilton found his breath, and voice, and cut the older man off. 

Jay blinked, taken aback, “--Do you want to hear about the position?”

“I will gladly serve the Congress in whatever way you think is appropriate.”

“Well, that was easy,” Jay smiled again, clasping his hands, “They told me you were prickly. I am happy to see that the reports are wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

Jay gave him one final nod and a fatherly pat on the back, exiting the office, and leaving Hamilton alone once more. He hissed, snapping from his stare, breaking skin on his finger and put it to his mouth, the metallic taste flooding his senses.


	19. Uncertainty

Aaron kicked his boots off in disgust, flopping back onto a broken, wobbling cot, the stench of mud and waste filtering in and out of his nostrils. Matt stood above him, waving a letter aloft as the sounds of the small camp-- muted conversations peppered by laughter and shouts, roaring fires and stomping horses-- filled the dusky air around them. 

“Letter time. Guess who it’s from.”

Aaron covered his face, ignoring his cousin. 

Matt spoke again, “Are you going to read it or are you going to lie there in a state like a little girl? It’s been two weeks. Don’t tell me you’re ready to go home already.”

“Matt, I am not in the mood for games.”

Matt stepped over to him, and dropped down onto a nearby log, reaching behind him to throw another small bunch of twigs onto their puny, dying fire, “You’re really going to love this letter, then. It’s from Timothy. It is so full of gloating I can hardly tell how he managed to write it without getting distracted by his own smugness.”

“Are you reading my mail again?” Aaron sat up on his elbows. 

“Technically no, since it was addressed to both of us,” Matt answered, handing him the piece of paper out of a stack he carried under his arm. He wrinkled his nose, “Take those rancid boots to the river and wash them already.”

Aaron unfolded the letter and let his eyes scan it quickly, answering, “The last time I left my things in search of the river someone stole my undershirts. All of them. This letter is absurd.”

“It is indeed.”

“Is he seriously suggesting…” Aaron trailed off, eyes moving back and forth.

Matt cut in, “...That he wants to pay you to come home? Yes. No mention of payment for me, of course.  I’m almost starting to think you’re his favorite now.”

“Give me a quill and ink. I’m putting a stop to this,” Aaron spat, crumpling the paper. He pointed to a bag, indicating Matt grab it. 

“What are you going to say?”

“I’m going to tell him that if he wants me to come home he’s going to have to come here and drag me. I am calling his bluff. I would have him hung up in ten minutes,” Aaron continued, anger rising quickly. 

Matt leafed idly through the rest of the stack, “Don’t get too upset. I bet Sally let something slip and Timothy took it the wrong way. Here-- the rest of your letters.”

“She wouldn’t,” Aaron replied off-handedly, taking the stack. 

“Hungry?”

Aaron looked up, “What?”

Matt set the rest of the letters next to him, close, “I asked if you were hungry. You look...ragged. Looks like the cook is done...whatever it is he’s making.” He inclined his head down toward a tent on the edge of the camp. 

Aaron made a face, tossing the letter into the fire, “No. I have no appetite.”

“God. Here we go.”

“What?” Aaron repeated, exasperated. He moved to a more comfortable position on the log, wanting nothing more than to read in private, “Pardon me if I don’t want to eat cat again.”

“Come on. It wasn't cat. It was rabbit.” Matt replied, in a voice that told Aaron he wasn’t fully convinced.

“Believe what you want.”

At this, a third boy dropped down beside them, holding his hands out towards the fire, “Letters? Finally. Any for me?”

Matt responded without looking up, “No one’s writing to you, Spring.”

“You didn’t even check.” Spring frowned. 

“The rest of those are reports from Boston about the state of our camp, and others in the area. I’d read it out loud but I don’t want to spoil the fun.” Matt finally addressed him. He eyed Aaron, who stared wordlessly into the fire, eyes glazed. He went on, unprompted. 

“It’s a mess, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. None of the new volunteers want to follow rules. Something like sixteenth thousand farmers--”

“--Typical,” Spring cut in. 

“Looks like we’re getting a new commander by the end of the summer season, in any case. Not sure it will make much of a difference with this lot,” Matt lifted a hand just as a loud string of profanities could be heard in the distance behind more of the tents. 

Spring stretched his legs out. “Don’t know what they expected letting half the men volunteer, from all over the place, different tempers and habits, all clashing…”

Aaron finally blinked, lifting himself and excusing himself from the fire to find his tent, the words from his uncle’s letter still burning a hole in his thoughts. He made his way slowly from the fire, into the humid, malarial darkness, the voices of his friends fading behind him. 

_ I would have him strung up.  _

It was frustration that kept him warm as he came upon the sad state of affairs inside the tent itself: several wobbly cots, an empty bowl bow meant for clean drinking water, a bedpan sitting precariously by a pile of discarded clothes. He put a hand to his head, rubbing his temples at another on-coming headache.  _ The food doesn’t agree with you. The elements are too much. The noises prevent you from sleeping. Your own family thinks you’re going to fail.  _

If he were being honest with himself, it was a failure. But it wasn’t his fault. 

The summer night outside crept in softy and Aaron shivered. He looked around again and his mother’s thin black journal caught his eye. He closed his eyes again, wincing in embarrassment at a moment the week previous when Matt came upon him reading it--teasing. 

_ You don’t understand _ , he wanted to yell, but the eyes and ears of the fellow soldiers who craned their necks at the bickering cousins told him it would end in further embarrassment if he made too big a deal. He reached out and grabbed the journal, cot creaking and bending under his weight. He shoved it under his pillow and switched it out with a folded piece of parchment-- well-loved and dog-eared. 

Another shiver; another chorus of shouting outside the tent at some bawdy joke. Aaron knew he’d hear about it in the morning from his friends--  _ why did you disappear on us? Do you think you’re better than us?  _

He turned over and tried to get into a more comfortable position, reaching behind him on a hook to grab an overcoat. He settled under the makeshift blanket and scanned the familiar script, a gentle warmness filling him; Jon’s voice.

_ To do justice to circumstances, which you know are of the greatest importance in order to form a true estimate of what a person either says or does, it is indispensably necessary for me to tell you that it not only rains very generously, but that it is as dark as it was before light was created. _

He’d read and reread the letter enough times to glean the double meaning in Jon’s words, and Aaron smiled. Visions of wet skin, steam rising in spirals and dissipating in a stuffy bedroom. The shivers that ripped through him even in the dead heat of the midsummer evening resumed, this time with a more pleasurable bent. 

_ Philosophy is the emptiest word in the dictionary. And you may observe, wherever you find them, that those persons who profess to place all their reliance upon it, under every affecting circumstance of life, do but make use of the term as a mask for an iron heart. _

Aaron read these words and it was as if Jon had read his mind, reaching deep into his subconscious to pull out the thread that wove all of Sally’s dire warnings together. 

_ You have no path--you’re just bored.  _

Jon’s retort:  _ Not having a set path makes your heart malleable and soft--and caring. _

Aaron swallowed, and his throat burned. He read on, tensing at the part he knew was coming up.

_ "But" (as the devil said on another occasion) "put forth thine hand, and touch his bone, and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face." They have as little fortitude as anybody when sufferings pinch home upon them. _

Aaron tried to remember the last time he’d touched  _ anybody _ . A troublesome writhing commingled confusingly with the pain flaring in his head and throat; a dull ache in his abdomen.

Matt was right-- it was a mess. 

Aaron tensed. 

_ They were all right.  _

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, ignoring a flare of hunger that roared in his stomach. He tried to remember, and hold on to, the excitement that he felt in his first days. It dissipated quickly when the realities of camp life flung themselves at Aaron one by one before he could catch them, hold them, and examine them. Reality on top of reality until he felt ill. He swatted at a fly that buzzed around the mess in the tent. 

_ Timothy will pay you if you come home. Sally will welcome you back with tears in her eyes. Think of the stories you and Jon could share. _

Aaron rubbed his temples again. Thought of ways to relieve his restlessness. Thought better of it, and hid Jon’s letter back in the thin black journal. 

It wouldn’t be so terrible if they’d been able to see something--anything-- any kind of action that would shake the layer of dissatisfaction and boredom from the men. Like the realities, the excuses piled up from those in command: _ We are ill-equipped. We are disorganized yet. We are unsure who will be commander and we cannot risk angering him or interfering with his plans. We have no ammunition-- nine rounds per man is hardly enough to take on the might of the British army-- are you brave enough to try it, Little Burr? _

And the laughter would ring out. They said it as if they knew him. Aaron took it in stride. 

Another fight broke out in the distance and Aaron strained to listen to this one. It was probably about food and rations. A rumble ripped through his stomach again and Aaron idly picked a few blades of grass from the ground beside him, holding them aloft and examining them in the low light. 

The river was right there. In the mornings, the mist would float over it, obscuring the opposing bank where Aaron knew the British army sat waiting, perhaps thinking the same things they were, perhaps harboring a small framed youth who sat in his tent tossing and turning throughout the night, chewing on the same thought over and over until the noises from the commanding officers roused him from his cot. Aaron massaged his leg, muscles tense and aching. His hand traveled from his thigh to his stomach, concave and empty. 

The opposition forces were  _ right  _ there. It was glaringly obvious. 

We cannot take the risk. We are waiting on the new commander for reinforcements and supplies. 

_ Who is ‘we’? _

Don’t ask questions, Little Burr. That is not for you to know. You are a solider-- follow the orders unquestionably. 

Aaron could almost hear his sister laugh at him.  _ What did you expect, Aaron?  _

He turned over, pains in his neck flaring. He closed his eyes. The thoughts were getting out of control and Aaron wondered if this is what it felt like, slipping into madness. His eyeballs flickered behind his lids and a final, violent shiver ripped across his skin before sleep took him. 

His dreams, like they had been for the past month, were frightful and abstract. 

Faceless figures reached out to him, wrapping their hands around his neck to choke the life out of him. He sat at a table with his dead parents, arguing. He looked over a balcony and lost his footing. His skin crawled with festering blisters and he screamed in pain. Someone reached out to shake him, and he flinched at being touched on his open wounds--

“Christ-- Aaron--!”

He felt hands jostling him awake. Aaron opened his eyes to see Matt, and several other nameless faces, standing over him. 

“You were shouting like a lunatic,” came Spring’s voice.

Aaron hyperventilated for a few terrifying seconds in the dead morning air punctuated by only the buzzing of the ever present flies.

“Look at him,” Matt muttered, waving a hand, “Step back. Haven’t you ever seen someone with a fever before? Go-- get out. Give him some air. Not  _ you _ , Spring, you idiot, you live here--”

“What time is it?” Aaron asked stupidly, rubbing his face, only to find it coated in sweat.

Matt shrugged an overcoat on, “Eight. Or thereabouts. We tried waking you hours ago and you wouldn’t budge. Kept muttering nonsense. So we ran to get the doctors.”

Spring pulled an apple out of his pocket, “Managed to steal this from one of the commanders. Hungry?”

Aaron lifted himself slowly to take it, thankful, and as soon as his head was right side up was hit with a dizzying wave of nausea. He closed his eyes again and tried to steady himself against the stretched canvas of the uncomfortable, shifting cot, putting a hand to his mouth. Spring made a face. 

“Definitely camp fever,” he muttered, slipping the apple back into his pocket, “I know that look. There’s a lad a few tents down who woke up pale and disoriented last week and he--”

“--He’ll be fine,” Matt interrupted. He held out his hand to Aaron, who took it, and slowly allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. 

“I feel like I am going to faint,” Aaron managed. 

“Come one. There’s a house right down the road where the doctors are treating the men.”

Visions of a real mattress, soft blankets, hot food and clean water filled Aaron’s mind so rapidly he felt his throat close with longing. 

“You’re not going to vomit, are you?” Spring asked, sliding his arm under Aaron’s. “If you are, aim for the ground directly. This is my last clean pair of breeches. You really don’t want to know what happened to my last ones. The cook managed to capture some dogs last week, and--”

Matt interrupted Spring for the second time, “--Samuel, for God’s sake, if you don’t want him to vomit you’ve got to stop talking right now. You’re turning  _ my  _ stomach and I’m not even sick. Aaron, watch the hole coming up.”

Half-delirious, Aaron could only barely hear the words his friends said, falling into them and allowing them to lift his small frame an inch off the ground over a shallow pit. 

Before he could follow what was happening, his friends had lifted him onto the back of a cart, tossing his coat onto him for coverage. Aaron closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds he’d come to know well: the slap of a whip against a horse and the creaking of wagon wheels as it traveled over the cold, pockmarked earth--towards--  _ what had Matt said? A house? A doctor? Am I sick? Am I dead, and this is the undertaker carrying me to a mass grave?  _

The fever burned his mind, each thought hitting his consciousness with a wet splash before disappearing into steam. 

****

Alexander paused in front of the fluttering sign, tacked haphazardly onto a faded wooden bulletin board in the school’s busy courtyard. He grabbed Troup’s sleeve, “Bobby-- have you seen this?”

Troup squinted at it, “The ink is running...either that or I need glasses…”

Alexander read bits and pieces, digesting the words rapidly, “Major Fleming… volunteer corps-- Bobby--”

“--Oh...no...Alexander,  _ please… _ ”

“We have to join.”

Alexander’s face split into an excited grin and he yanked the paper down from the board, tearing it slightly, staring at it, while Troup stared at him.

“I can practically see the thoughts exploding out of your head.”

“This is perfect…” Alexander muttered, reading the paper as he walked.

“Let me see that,” Troup held out his hand, and Alexander handed it to him. “They don’t...Alexander… we would need to come prepared with everything! Do you have a gun? A uniform?”

“We’ll make our own.”

“What is the point?”

Alexander walked on, Troup keeping pace. 

“What happened to working for Mr. Jay? How are you going to do that and…” Troup yanked the paper from his friend, to a slightly shocked noise from Alexander. He read it again, “...How are you going to keep correspondence with Mr. Jay and drill ‘before sunrise in the Graveyard of St. George’s chapel’-- before sunrise. That’s when you’re writing.”

Alexander crossed his arms, thoughts swarming. Then, “Jay wants me to keep him informed about the goings-on, on campus. What better way than this? It’s just a small regiment, for God’s sake.”

“Can you wait until classes let out for the summer?”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it just because you’re nervous,” Alexander said swiftly, continuing his walk. He hadn’t meant to sound so mean, and immediately regretted it, “Bobby. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Alexander studied him. Troup went on. 

“Sometimes...and I do mean this kindly...you have a tendency to…”

“...What?”

“I’m getting to it!”

Alexander exhaled exasperatedly, lifting and dropping the hand with the paper in it. He shoved it in his pocket as they reached the dorms, swinging open the door and skirting small crowds of students milling through the halls.

Troup did his best to be tactful, “...Sometimes, you have a tendency to jump without looking. That is what I am saying.” He followed his friend down the familiar halls, letting each carefully chosen word leave his mouth slowly, trying to stay polite, “...The interest in Mr. Jay, well-- that I can say I understand. I can see the validity of practicing rhetoric, for example, with someone more learned than yourself. But the fiasco at City Hall... “

The pair turned left down a less crowded hallway. 

“The fiasco at city hall was not my fault. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Alexander said simply. 

Troup digested the words, “So now you want to put yourself in harm’s way some more?”

Alexander wriggled another doorknob, pushing it open with a grunt. 

Troup paused, looked around, “Where are we going?”

“Debate club.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

Alexander flattened his expression, gave his friend his full attention, “What look?” The two students regarded each other, and Alexander was the first to break the stare, turning around to flatten the crumpled broadside onto the desk at the head of the classroom. Troup eyed it, the plan crystalizing quickly, uncomfortably, in his mind. 

His eyes darted around the room, “What are you doing with that thing? Throw it out for God’s sake, before one of the professors catches you with it!”

“Recruiting.”

“Alexander!” 

“Think about it. What better place to recruit bright young men for the volunteer corps than a debate club, where argumentation and viewpoints are more likely to be more malleable? Think, Bobby,” Alexander dropped his voice, a glint of deviousness, “Most of our friends are already primed for convincing.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Troup glared at him.

“I am going to hang this broadside on the wall, here, just so--” Alexander gesticulated to a blank space to the left of a dingy window, “--then, when our fellow members start to arrive, I will pretend like it has just caught my eye, like this--”

Troup watched him act out the scene, describing the plan. Alexander paused and thought, putting a finger to his chin. 

“Maybe I will let things get settled first, for ten or fifteen minutes--no, interrupting is frowned upon. I should do it first thing. Everyone’s attentions will be fresh.

Troup slammed a hand on the broadside, getting his friend’s attention. Alexander jumped, as though he forgot Troup was there. 

“It’s sneaky!”

“It most certainly is not,” Alexander retorted, swiping the sheet from beneath his friend’s palm and shooting him a look. “These advertisements have been hanging up around the campus all week. How do we know the other students haven’t already seen them? Once I bring attention to it, here, I will begin my arguments in favor of it. It will be a natural transition. I will be able to safely express my thoughts under the guise of rhetoric.”

Behind them, several of the students began to meander into the small classroom, taking their seats and talking amongst themselves. Alexander watched his friend go from white to pink.

“Trust me, Bobby, it will work.”

_ “That’s what I’m afraid of.” _

“Are you going to join with me?” Alexander asked, stepping closer and turning his back to the rest of the room. “You wouldn’t make me do it all by myself, would you?”

Troup sighed, “I don’t--”

“--First you say writing for the Gazette is a fool’s errand. I will grant you that. Then you give me grief for taking up a correspondence with Mr. Jay. Then, when I find a way for us to act on our beliefs, you shrink.”

Troup whispered back, angrily, “That is not fair.”

The pair felt a third presence behind them, and turned to see Nicolas approach them, curiosity alight on his face, “Why so secretive? What are you two scheming?”

“Nothing, Nicolas, just go--”

“--This, look--” Alexander cut him off and held out the pamphlet, describing his plan. 

****

Aaron stared at the white ceiling, wondering how many times he would awake like this: silent and resentful. 

“Awfully quiet,” a woman’s voice muttered, walking into the small room carrying a load of blankets. She stole a glance at him, then squatted down to shove the sheets onto a bottom shelf. Aaron’s eyes followed her, and the words wouldn’t come. 

“A ‘thank you’ would be in order.”

She looked at him with her hands on her hips. Aaron tried to open his mouth, and felt dry lips pull apart painfully; a thick tongue that wouldn’t form his words. He watched her shake her head, muttering again as she left.  _ Fever’s burned his senses, poor thing.  _

Aaron closed his eyes again, slowly slipping back under. 

He lost track of the days; the disorienting shapes and colors that filtered in and out of his consciousness instead of the comforting rotation of day and night.

The next time he woke up, the sun had gone down. Faint voices from adjoining rooms drifted in and out and his pillow was drenched. He turned his head, and the room spun. 

“Still can’t move?” Came the woman’s voice. Aaron tried to shake his head, _ yes, obviously _ \-- opened his mouth again. And she was gone. 

His eyes felt as though they were stuck together. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He felt around him slowly. The sweat-drenched sheets had been changed and as his eyes adjusted to the dim room he saw the glass and pitcher next to him, sitting on a nightstand. Slowly, he reached out, every tiny movement a strain on his muscles. Through the delirium Aaron tried to remember when he’d eaten last, and couldn’t. 

“Just...stop-- don’t move, for God’s sake--”

The woman was back, chastising him, in a voice just a few decibels too loud for Aaron’s weakened senses, holding out her hand. He winced. 

“If you drop that glass and shatter it, I’m kicking you out. I don’t care who’s son you are,” She said, taking the glass from him and pouring him the water, still talking, “I’m surprised you’re able to lift your head. Can you sit up? If so, you can have some broth.”

Aaron steadied himself against the headboard, pain flooding his eyes and temples. He blinding gulped the water and set the empty glass back down, feeling it hit his empty stomach with a sharp pang. As if reading his mind, the woman spoke again. 

“You’re going to need to put something in your stomach soon. You’re skin and bones,” she took the glass and disappeared, leaving Aaron to rest his head back against the headboard, eyes closed. In the next minute she was back with a bowl and the appetizing smell of it hit Aaron so quickly he wanted to cry. 

“So, your appetite is back. That’s good. I’ll tell the coroner to leave,” the woman said, plainly. 

Aaron paused, mid-bite, “...Pardon?” His voice, hoarse and low, didn’t hit her ears and she left the room again in a flurry of important movement. Several voices, some low, some high, discussed him, down the hall. The soft step of a pair of boots and the shutting of a door and the men were gone. 

“What did you say?” He tried again when she came back. 

“I said the coroner,” she folded a blanket in the corner of the room, speaking without looking at him, as though she were dictating the grocery list to another servant, “We called him in last night because your skin was the color of the walls.”

Aaron swallowed another spoonful of the broth and his eye caught a different basin sitting plainly on a windowsill: covered in blood-soaked cloth, flanked by a knife and a doctor’s kit. The unpleasant churning in his stomach revolted against the scene, and Aaron turned his head. 

“He was gracious about it,” the woman went on, extroverted and chatty, as though she were talking about the weather. “He brought his doctor’s kit, just in case you decided to live. But we all figured you wouldn’t make it through the night. Even started to smell like death in here, too, if you can believe. I should know, I’ve seen fourteen other soldiers twice your size this past month expire right where you lay--”

“--Can you shut that window? Please,” Aaron cut her off. 

She obliged, “Fresh air will do you good, you know.”

“There’s a fly in here.”

She turned to him, hands on her hips again, eyes searching, “I am still waiting for a ‘thank-you’.”

“What is your name?” 

“Charlotte.”

Aaron swallowed another spoonful of the burning broth, staring into his bowl, “Thank you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte exhaled, seemingly satisfied. She looked around, “Anything else? I’ll have someone clean up the basin. I think one more night’s rest here will do you good. Then it’s back to the camp. Don’t worry, they haven’t left without you…”

Her voice trailed off as she exited the room again, talking down the hall. Aaron listened as she found a new person to harangue about dirty boots. He closed his eyes again and tried to catch his breath--inhaled deeply, waited for the hitch. 

****

Alexander was not aware that it came quickly to him until someone pointed it out-- a younger boy, panting and lagging behind in the hot sun, surrounded by gravestones. He smiled and nodded, thank you, as politely as he could, shaking the feeling that the surprise in the younger recruit’s voice was an insult all it’s own. 

School became a distraction-- as Troup was all too quick to point out. 

“You can’t give up now. You’re almost through-- just--”

But Alexander wouldn't’ allow him to finish his sentence, because there was a ring of truth to it Alexander couldn’t bear to face. 

The smell of gunpowder and sweat knocked him back to the present.  _ Focus _ . 

The routine was simple but grueling. He awoke before his roommate, making his way quickly, quietly, through the darkened corridors, collecting the mail and sorting through it as quickly as he could. The shifting embarrassment that creeped up inside of him at the lack of letters from Jay. The shuffling of papers, shoving them into his bag, as if shuffling and shoving his own doubts away. The sun would peak above the horizon and it would be time to turn his energies elsewhere. 

“How long have you been up?” Troup would mutter lazily from his position beneath a pile of blankets that dwarfed him. 

“Three.”

A grunt of disapproval from him; a twinge of wounded pride from Alexander. 

“If I don’t wake before the dawn and start immediately I will grow listless and bored and lazy and then nothing will get done.”

“Alright,  _ alright--  _ I didn’t mean anything by it…” 

His brain worked too quickly, sometimes, for the words he was writing. Handing Troup and Nicolas letters to go over, proofread, resulted in several embarrassments-- “Alex, it looks like you skipped an entire paragraph, here”-- rewrites set him back hours, and in his rush to correct them, made even more mistakes. 

At six, the drilling would start. 

It was easier and easier to lie: the words he spilled onto paper, twisting and translating them into spoken half-truths. He would eye the inquisitive person and quickly deduce what to tell them: it’s just a bit of exercise. We are going to protect the college from the radicals, if need be _. We are going to chase the loyalists into the streets and out of the city _ . Alexander made curious minds believe he was at once fighting for both causes, the lies tangling in his mind like hissing snakes, to the disapproving, silent glare of Troup and Nicolas. 

It was noon, and it was time for arithmetic. Alexander would enter the empty classroom, stinking and sweating from the mornings’ drilling, fanning his shirt, ignoring the furrowed, confused brows from his tutor. 

“You’re going to eventually have to come out and say it,” the tutor murmured one day as his head hung heavy over a page full of sums, eyes drooping dangerously. 

At this, Alexander’s heart raced; the flare of defensiveness, “What are you talking about?”

“You know I don’t like to listen to idle gossip, Alexander. But there is talk you’ve joined Fleming’s militia, and that is where you’ve been spending your free time. Is this true?” The tutor, Harpur, looked at him with a flat expression that Alexander feared most. 

He searched the face of the older man, exhaustion-fogged brain trudging slowly like an old horse through snow.

“Are you going to answer me? I cannot believe some of these mistakes, Hamilton,” Harpur frowned, pursing his lips and going over the parchment in front of them. 

“I can explain. I have been very tired these past few days. I believe it is the heat that causes it--”

“These are mistakes a child would make,” he remarked flatly again, pointing to a smudged line of arithmetic Alexander couldn’t even remember writing. “What is going on?”

Perhaps it was exhaustion-- perhaps something more ominous and pressing-- that made Alexander reveal what he’d been doing to the raised eyebrows and soft, hidden, entertained grin he’d come to recognize on the faces of the long list of benefactors that ushered his life along. 

“You’re playing with fire, I believe the expression goes,” Harpur said after several minutes. 

Alexander’s mouth was dry. He reached for a glass of water; allowed that to be his answer. It wasn’t good enough. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying? The Sons aren’t to be trifled with,” Harpur went on, with a slightly protective bent to his voice that made Alexander feel as though he’d been put on trial. Harpur exhaled, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden seats of the tiny, empty classroom. He lifted the parchment, and set it back down again, seemingly searching for words. 

He spoke again, diplomatically, “You cannot play both sides, here. You cannot tell different people different things. It will end in chaos. Does Mr. Jay know of your plan?”

“He encouraged it.”

“I highly doubt that, Hamilton.”

“What do you know?” The low buzz of exhaustion that filled his ears set him on edge, and Alexander bit his tongue. “I apologize for my tone. I mean to say, sir, that it was Mr. Jay’s idea that I should be his eyes and ears and send him as much information as I can--”

“--In between studies and drilling and writing unpopular arguments for a loyalist newspaper?” Harpur asked, incredulous. “Does he know what he’s asking of you? Seems selfish-- meaning no offence to him.”

“It was my idea. He encouraged it,” Alexander defended, weakly. 

The summer crept upon him further still and he would wake up sweating and heart racing, only to be cooled down by the light breeze in the graveyard, beneath the shade of the centuries-old oaks that shielded them. The rumors poured in around him-- _ they’re leaving in the thousands, the loyalists, they’re fleeing to the country, it’s because of us, it’s because of you. No, it’s the Sons. No, it’s the boycotts.  _

It was becoming more and more obvious where Alexander should direct his energies, he realized.

May came, hot and insistent, mosquitos and horseflies hovering over the still-cold water of the river. Alexander let his eyes and ears stay above the surface, treading, some distance off from the rest of the students during a mid-morning break in their routines. The laughter and shouting and shining bodies sliced through the splashing water and it made Alexander nervous-- _ someone will hear you- _ \- and he swam to a far bank, obscured by overgrown roots and low-hanging vegetation. 

He dipped beneath the surface and for a brief, refreshing moment, pretended the oppressive wet silence was his life: no drilling, no dry-mouthed excuses, no aching hand and wrist and calloused fingers. He stayed submerged, letting the quiet in his mind slip into instinctive panic as his lungs ached. He forced the last of the air from his chest and resurfaced in a desperate, open-mouthed gasp.

****

“You’ve got company,” Charlotte called out from the doorway, leaning on the frame. Aaron pulled his eyes open, slowly, painfully. 

He shifted, disoriented. In a flurry of skirts she was gone again, and Matt and Spring were in her place. They slid past her, wary.

“You awake…?” came Matt’s voice. 

Aaron summoned enough energy to hoist himself up, first onto his elbows and then into a seated position, steadying himself against the spin of the room, “Yes. Barely.”

He looked at his companions, a dark feeling creeping through his chest at their expression. They exchanged looks with each other, then gave Aaron their full attention. 

Spring spoke first, “They told us to expect the worst.”

Aaron shrank back into the pillows, almost embarrassed. 

“We saw the coroner’s cart travelling back and forth at all hours. Couldn’t see the faces of the bodies, and just assumed…” Matt trailed off, looking at his cousin as if he were a ghost. “...There’s less than two thousand of us left.”

“What?” Aaron leaned forward, unsure he’d heard the number correctly. 

“Most of the men disbanded,” Matt continued. “The rest…”

“You’re one of the lucky ones,” Spring concluded, slipping his hands in his pockets. 

Aaron fell back again. 

Matt stepped forward and sat lightly on the edge of the bed, brushing the sheets off absentmindedly, “There’s talk of abandoning the camp here entirely. There’s talk of mutiny, cannibalism, murder, all manner of horrors, though I have yet to see any of it with my own eyes. Some talk of travelling further north in the fall.”

“Got a new commander, though,” Spring added hopefully. 

“How much did I miss?” Aaron grumbled, rubbing his eyes. 

Matt and Spring exchanged looks again. 

“You shouldn’t feel bad. Half the men in our regiment got sick. The doctors chalked it up to camp life but it had to be the food,” Spring went on. “The place is a mess. That’s part of why everyone left, and why others want to keep moving north. The colder it gets the less chance for fever, I suppose.”

Aaron mulled over the words. 

“What are you thinking? I know that look,” Matt’s voice cut in. 

“They’re going to send me home, aren’t they?” Aaron answered. Even as the words left his mouth he felt the weight of them: disappointment, failure. The several second pause in response from his two friends told him everything he needed to know. Aaron went on, “I’m not going back.”

“Aaron…” Spring muttered, almost tired. 

Matt finished the thought, “You can’t keep going. They’re only taking the strongest. They’re going up the Kennebec in the middle of winter. They’re not going to let you.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Aaron lifted his head, defiant.

“Montgomery.”

“Give me a piece of paper and a quill.”

“Aaron, no,” Spring interrupted. “Even if we thought it was a good idea-- they’re not going to let you, not after learning you’ve been laying in a sick-bed, flirting with death for the past two weeks. I’ve taken the liberty of volunteering in your stead--”

“--You what?” At this, Aaron shot up, immediately regretting it as his head swam. He swallowed, blinking, darkness clouding his peripheral vision for several seconds before settling. Spring stared at him blankly. 

“They need a chaplain,” he concluded, as if that explained it away. 

Aaron stared at him, mouth open. Then, shaking his head, “I’m not hearing this.” He inhaled deeply, one last time, and then lifted himself out of bed.

“Aaron, lay down,” Matt raised his voice. “For God’s sake, it’s not worth it.” Spring shifted his weight, staring at the floor, and Matt went on, repeating, “It’s not worth it. Half the men think it’s going to fail, anyway. Even if in some wild fantasy Montgomery managed to take Quebec he’d be doing it in the dead of winter with minimal reinforcements. You’re not well.”

Aaron situated himself at a desk, head heavy. He looked around for a quill, “When are they leaving?”

“The end of September,” Spring offered. 

Matt turned to look at him, mouth agape, “What are you doing? Don’t encourage him!”

Spring shrugged, a cloud passing over his expression. Matt wasn’t ready to give up the fight, and he spoke again, in a voice Aaron concluded must have sounded like an angry father. 

“Well I’m not going,” he said, stubbornly. “You can go gallivanting off on a fool’s errand with a general you hardly know and a band of ragged men who’ve been living off of rancid meat for the past three months, but I’m not. And I think you should seriously reconsider your course of action given your illness.”

Aaron stared at the paper in front of him, letters taking shape with his weakened muscles. The pains in his back and neck flared, and he stifled a cough, swallowing. He’d heard it all before, so much so that it beat like a drum in the back of his mind, ever-present and monotonous-- getting easier and easier to ignore.

****

“Get up-- Alex-- for Christ’s sake--!”

Alexander felt himself being jostled awake by Troup-- his hands insistent and nervous. He turned in his sheets for a brief, dull second before his eyes popped open and the panic took over again. 

“What…?”

“Do you hear that?” Troup hovered over him in his nightclothes, worried and almost shaking. Alexander almost wanted to laugh. 

“Is it three?” Alexander asked, stupidly.

A loud bang and the crack of a gunshot ricocheting of the side of the building set Alexander into motion.

The mob tore through the streets like a white-capped river destroying everything in its path. The men churned and ebbed, torches bouncing above them, voices ringing out and echoing off the sides of the street. 

Alexander braced himself against the building. 

“--What’s going on?” Troup asked, looking around. 

“Oh, Christ…” Nicolas said, turning slightly pale. 

Alexander turned to him, “What?”

“It’s McDougal’s boys,” Nicolas answered. “I heard a rumor they’d be out tonight, causing mischief.”

“And you didn’t think to warn us?” Alexander raised his voice, looking around, watching the street slowly fill with students and onlookers of all ages. His blood thrummed loudly in his ears. Flashing, random thoughts threatened to yank him from the present moment: _ how long did you sleep? Where is your uniform? Where is your musket? _

“I didn’t want to repeat idle gossip!” Nicolas shouted back, “And besides, it’s not as if any of us have been able to get a word in edgewise, with you. Half the time you won’t even listen--”

“Now is not the time!” Alexander shot back. He marched past a different group of men, craning their necks to watch the scene, and he strained to listen to what the mob was planning but couldn’t differentiate any of the bellowing voices. His friends followed him, and he spoke, “Where are they going? Should we warn the authorities?”

Nicolas’ voice came into clearer focus as the crowd moved further away, down the street, “It wouldn’t matter. Half the men in that crowd are the authorities.”

“Christ,” Alexander swore. He paused, put a hand to his eyes and closed them.

“What are you thinking?” Troup asked, urgent.

“Alex…” Nicolas’ voice cut through his swirling, tired thoughts, “...They’re heading back toward the school.”

Several of the onlookers around them muttered something similar; the sound of more guns cocking in the darkness. Alexander looked up and confronted the frightened faces of his friends.

It was the last clear image Alexander had before his vision went red, limbs moving independently of his tired mind. 

He saw himself outside his own body, running back toward the college building, up the stairs, down the narrow hallways, blocking out the shouting from his friends and the mob itself. The indiscriminate buzz filtering in and out of his consciousness again, so at-home inside of him it felt like a second soul. He looked down to see his shaking hands slamming on Cooper’s bedroom door; backing his friends up to kick at the knob and hinges until it fell open to the sound of the president’s frightened shout. Cooper’s face, alight with the orange glow from outside his window. 

“What is going _ on?”  _

Alexander forced the words out, “They’re coming to kill you, sir.”

“What?” The older man blanched, clutching his chest. It was then that Alexander noticed he was half-dressed already, and probably, frightfully, knew this moment was coming. Alexander reached out and grabbed his arm, finding it clammy and thin and shaking. He passed him off to the group of students that had followed him, attaching themselves to his mission whether by curiosity or malice. 

“What are you all doing?” Cooper called out again.

“Be quiet,” Alexander turned, burning. He shoved a different student to the side, “Move. I need to get to the window.”

“You’re not going to encourage them, are you?” Cooper asked, and Alexander could practically hear the old man’s throat close with fear and terror. 

The sight that greeting Alexander as he looked down into the courtyard and further into the burning streets made his heart sink: the mob had pushed their way through the courtyard, leaving a charred wake of toppled saplings and crushed vegetation and detritus.

“Is this your doing, Hamilton?” Cooper’s voice hit him a third time.

Alexander slammed his fist against the windowsill in frustration, words failing him. 

It was a silent, urgent flurry of movement that brought Cooper back down the hidden staircase used only for servants and slaves. Out through the dirty kitchen, the back yards where white sheets hung lazily in the night breeze, strangely out of place, toward the stables where the horses waited. 

The rest of the students had been picked off-- some opting for the safety of their dorms, some for the excitement of the thrashing mob. Alexander tried not to think of those boys, who made the crowd bigger and more energetic, as he dragged Cooper along. 

_ The old man has forgotten his shoes; _ one of Alexander’s thoughts, fleeting and useless and incongruent, finally caught up with his movement. 

“You’re helping me?” Cooper caught his breath. “I thought you wanted me hanged, like the rest of them.”

“Take the horse and go to the country.” Alexander demanded flatly. 

_ “What is going on?” _

Alexander couldn’t answer. He felt Cooper’s eyes burning into him, awaiting an explanation. A teacher demanding an answer from a student. Alexander swallowed and his throat stung with gunpowder and he studied the ground. 

“Answer me!”

Alexander raised his gaze and gave the old man one last look: thin, grey and frightened. Shoeless and disoriented. The horse stomped impatiently, eyes darting nervously at the sounds of the creeping mob that threatened to come closer with each passing second; the whites around its irises bright in the darkness. Alexander picked up a thin twig and whipped the horse, sending it galloping into the impenetrable darkness of the back roads. 

****

Aaron’s mind wandered, standing in the crowd of fellow volunteers beneath the blistering sun, heat from their closer bodies radiating together uncomfortably. The older man at the front of the crowd droned on, informing them of the day’s announcements. Aaron wondered if the burning fever had cooked his capacity for attention right out of his head and he found himself staring at a misshapen cloud drifting listlessly, singularly, across the bright blue sky. 

“...The Congress has therefore determined it necessary to keep up an army for the defense of the colonies,” the soldier droned; the younger volunteers murmured. He continued, “They have appointed the following general officers: George Washington, esquire, commander-in-chief. Major-generals Ward, Lee, Schuyler, and Putnam. Brigadier-generals Pomeroy, Montgomery, Wooster, Heath, Spencer, Thomas, Sullivan, of New-Hampshire, and one Green, of Rhode-Island…”

The names filtered in and out of Aaron’s brain-- it was really only one he cared about. 

“Hear that?” Matt nudged him.

“What?”

“Jesus, are you feverish again?”

Aaron shook his head, “No. I heard. Washington, Ward, Lee, et cetera. Congratulations to them. None of the names come as a surprise.”

“Are you going to be here when Washington comes for the inspection?” Matt asked out of the corner of his mouth, “Or are you going to flee to Maine before he gets a chance?”

“I’m not fleeing. And don’t be bitter because I want to see more action and you’re too scared.”

_ “I’m _ bitter?” Matt whispered, incredulous, “Do you hear yourself?”

Aaron chewed on his words. Then, cautiously, ‘I already sent my inquest to Montgomery. The deed is done. I’m going with him and that’s that. You can either accept it or you can wallow in confusion but either way it is happening.”

“At least go as a chaplain, like Spring, so you’re less likely to wind up face-down in a pit with a bayonet in your head,” Matt shot back, matching his tone. “I’m going to stay and meet Washington. I hear he’s going to be picking men for his staff. A nice middle ground between lolling around at a desk and standing in front of a musket.”

“What does  _ that  _ mean?”

The two bickering cousins ignored several annoyed glances from a couple of soldiers around them, eyeing them to be quiet. Matt went on, “It means-- you get the glory of having served, with half the risk.  _ That’s _ what it means.”

Aaron shot him a sarcastic look, “Our colonies are in good hands with you, Matt.”

The announcements ended, and the volunteers began to disperse amongst the camp, returning to their tents. Matt turned to him, giving Aaron his full attention. 

“You’re foolhardy. What on earth are you trying to prove? Why not stay here and wait for Washington’s orders? You’ll end up seeing action eventually, if that’s what you’re after…”

Matt’s voice trailed off, and Aaron was alone in his tent again. 

He leafed through his mother’s slim journal, still unable to bring himself to read the words too closely. 

He felt reckless; angry, unable to formulate a coherent sentence on a piece of paper since the fever. He spent the rest of the day walking through the nearby woods, in deep contemplative thought, about the effects of illness on the brain. The summer was dying around him, slow and golden. 

_ Sleep outside tonight. It may be the last good night for it. The rain is coming. _

Aaron flattened a blanket on the earth as the sun sat low, late season cicadas chirping. He rolled his coat into a makeshift pillow, and lay back, staring at the canopy of trees. 

_ Won’t your friends wonder where you are? _

He shook the thought from his mind. He needed peace and quiet. He pulled a stale piece of bread from his pocket and ate it quickly as though it were the best tasting thing in the world, chasing it with a tiny bit of liquor he’d stolen from an inattentive commander. The world spun slowly and Aaron drifted in and out of a light sleep again. 

_ It will be fine, Aaron. You’ll see. Keep your wits about you and everything will be alright. Imagine the looks on their faces when you emerge as a hero. Shedding your old skin like a snake; baptism, fire, and renewal-- _

Aaron’s eyes popped open at the religious imagery, “No.”

_ That’s what you want, isn’t it? _

Jon’s gently chastising face appeared to him and Aaron wrestled with the vision of him and what he represented. Slammed it into a wall and pushed it down, frustrated, wanting to both warp it and consume it at once before spitting back out. He loosened his necktie and ground his teeth.

_ My dearest soldier--I was infinitely surprised to hear from you in the army. I can hardly tell you what sensations I did not feel at the time. Shall not attempt to describe them, though they deprived me of a night's sleep. _

Aaron had almost memorized the letter, both shocked and pleased with Jon’s ability to get right to his innermost thoughts. In awe, even. Every time Aaron picked up a quill to return the words his mind would halt and the heat would rise in his face and the idea that Jon would see the words spilled out plainly on the paper made him nervous beyond all reason and the doubts would creep in and--

_ I visited your tent; beheld you (unnoticed) musing on your present circumstances. _

Aaron stared at the canopy, sky darkening. He realized that for the past fortnight he’d avoided sleeping in his tent when he could

_ The scene, on your discovering me, immediately changed to something more tender; but I won't waste paper. _

“Well then,” Aaron muttered out loud, cutting through the romantic visions that suddenly clouded his mind even further than it already had been. _ It might be the last night you get to yourself, Aaron. Enjoy it. _ He loosened his belt.

_ I wish you  _ had  _ wasted paper, Jon.  _ Aaron closed his eyes and tried to put himself inside his friend’s head-- the words he liked, the sound of his voice resonating inside his chest, the pulse at his neck. _ I wish you had wasted the paper, and told me exactly what we would do if you were here. I would be good. I would be pliant.  _ He let the thoughts and memories from the previous spring run circles around his mind until he came, wet on his fist, in short, hard breaths. 

Aaron closed his eyes, color flooding his face; excessive rain, spilling onto a blank page.

****

It was late June, and Alexander was standing in a crowd of similarly-aged boys, shrinking nervously under the new Commander-in-Chief's dull grey gaze. 

The school year disappeared as a distant memory; the turning of a page in a book. 

He studied the old man. Burned holes into his unfathomable exterior with his eyes, mentally willing him to look. The new commander did not. Alexander was one single face in thousands. 

It was early July, and Alexander was knee deep in letters again. He’d come back from drilling after a violent tussle with another student, nerves and patience shot, beating him into the ground after he’d refused to listen to orders from Fleming. 

“ _ Sycophant _ ,” the other boy spat, literally, at Alexander’s feet when he stood up for Fleming-- and Alexander flew at him. Troup had stopped his warnings and protestations after that. And once again Alexander was in over his head. 

It was late July, and Alexander bathed in the river more and more to stay cool. He had been eating better. He had been exercising more. He was no longer shaking and breathless, walking up stairs or running to catch the post with an unsent letter, before it left for the evening. He was strong; enjoyed the feeling of resistance in the water, walking along the bottom of the river to build his leg muscles. 

“Who are you trying to impress? All of the girls have gone to the country for the summer,” Troup muttered idly, laying back on an opposite bench after a particularly grueling afternoon in the sun. Even _ he’d _ traded weight for muscle, Alexander noticed of his once overweight friend. His fellow students took on expressions of wary defensiveness, like hungry predators, waiting for the next skirmish. 

August came so hot it melted the candles in their stuffy tents. Alexander put his head on his fist, watching the wax slowly mold into the desk. The news of the day was that Washington had authorized McDougal to take control of his regiment and the fiery McDougal immediately set to work drilling them harder, daily, in the fields where one year previous Alexander had taken essays and books to read. It became easier and easier as the days progressed. 

Finally, someone took notice. 

McDougal called him into his tent in the dead heat of an August night. Alexander stopped short, smile plastered to his face at the sight of Mulligan standing behind him, proudly. 

“Mulligan said you were the bravest. And the cause needs brave soldiers, ” McDougal looked at him, flicker of mirth and a joke Alexander didn’t understand behind his eye, “The same student who accosted a crowd of drunken, brawling Liberty Boys. Would you like to know the plan, then?”

****

Letter after letter-- Aaron could line the walls of a house with them. Each one more insulting than the last. 

From an old doctor, James, who prescribed him balm for an unsavory rash: _ I am extremely sorry to hear that you are determined on the new expedition to Quebec...You will die; I know you will die in the undertaking; it is impossible for you to endure the fatigue. _

The last lines underlined and words traced over, bolded, as if shouting at him. 

From a different fellow student, Peter, with whom he’d stayed several weeks at a time when the rigors of juggling both coursework and girls became too much: _ I cannot retire to rest till I have written you a few lines, to excuse my casting so many discouragements in the way of your journey to Quebec. At first I did not think it so hazardous; but, upon inquiring of those who had more knowledge of the country, thought it too fatiguing an undertaking for one of your years... _

“Well it’s a bit too fucking late for that, isn’t it?” Aaron muttered to himself. 

“Who are you talking to?” Came Spring’s voice. He walked over, carefully, standing wobbly-legged in the small boat that carried them along the gentle river. Aaron looked up and eyed his friend, dressed in a starched white collar and black robes. He made a face. 

“I cannot take you seriously in that.”

Spring held out an arm, examining the dress, “You don’t think it suits me?”

“I don’t think it suits anyone,” Aaron said, low, taking a seat on a water-logged bench, waves sloshing at the sides. 

“More dire warnings, then.” Spring went on, trying to hide the trepidation in his voice from the other men that accompanied them. He sat down next to Aaron, glancing over the letter, “... _ ’Don't turn Catholic for the sake of the girls’ _ ...?”

Aaron yanked it away, “Do you mind?”

“Sorry. You get a lot of letters. More than anyone else, I think. And yet you don’t respond to any of them. They’re going to think you’re dead.”

It was true, Aaron admitted to himself when the rocking of the boat on the water proved too powerful, and he was lulled to sleep. The boat carried them north; Aaron’s mind carried his thoughts to the prospective words he’d pen, when he got the chance, when he was awake, when there wasn’t so much to do, so much to distract and occupy him. The excuses piled one after another until it was just easier to ignore it and plow ahead with his plans, to Spring’s disapproving glances. 

“Arnold says we’ll be in Quebec in a week,” Spring announced, to no one in particular, one chilly morning at the end of September. He plopped down next to Aaron, chewing loudly. He went on, “I don’t know if I’d take it seriously, though, with this dead, wind-less weather we’ve been having.”

He stopped short of insulting their commander outright, something Aaron had wanted to do since he met the man. Arnold had scanned him and known him in an instant, before Aaron could open his mouth for introduction. 

“You look ill, Burr. Are you ill?” Arnold had said, loudly, drawing the attention of the rest of the men and Aaron wanted to disappear. 

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, sir, I am not ill.”

Arnold regarded him with a strange mix of disinterest and wariness, and Aaron felt exposed. It was as if the new commander had decided, upon first glance, to dislike Aaron without reason, and he spent the rest of the trip wondering why. On the eighth day, after allowing his thoughts to center around the dark-featured, surly general-- anticipating his every command, falling into line before being asked, avoiding asking simple questions no matter how pressing--Aaron realized that that  _ was  _ Arnold’s plan. 

He glared daggers at the older man.

****

_ The generals wouldn’t give you anything you couldn’t handle.  _

Alexander’s new captain, Lamb, handed him the orders. 

It was late and the regiment had been drilling since dawn. The same song. Alexander was calloused to it. He stared at the captain with rapt interest. 

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind, Hamilton. You want to make the speech?” Lamp addressed him directly in front of the other volunteers. 

“If you think it necessary, sir.” Alexander replied without missing a beat. 

“I don’t. Wipe that crazed look off your face and pay attention.”

“Of course. I apologize.”

Lamb pursed his lips, spread the map on the table before them; a hastily drawn map of Manhattan unfurled and the captain dragged his finger across it, words matching to each pointing gesture, explaining their plan. 

“There are nearly two dozen canon, just across the river, there--” he jammed his pointer onto the map, and Alexander took noticed of a misshapen bruise on his nail; a long, discolored scar running the length of it, “--lining the battery beneath St. George. We are going to capture them. Hamilton.”

Alexander blinked, almost jumping, looking up at the sound of his name, “Yes?”

“Repeat to me what I said.”

A snicker from behind him and Alexander shrank, “Two dozen canon. Battery. Beneath St. George.”

The night ended as Lamb had all but explicitly predicted in his speech: in a hellish rain of gunpowder and bullets and screams, Alexander dodging them like falling trees and loosened shingles in a hurricane. Adrenaline kicked in so fast he thought he’d faint: first in his fingers, radiating out across his skin and in his veins, a wildness inside him that made him run towards the cannon fire. When it was all said and done-- when the sun rose, blood red, over the line of trees and the river itself-- he’d managed to grab nearly all of the canons. 

It was almost a blackout. He found himself panting, sweat-drenched and aching, against an uncomfortably cold stone wall, arm draped over the last of the canon as though it were a dog, keeping him company. He breathed, ragged, wiped dirt from his eyes and the grime from his hands made them sting even more. 

_ Was this the first test?  _ A strange, disjointed thought flittered into his mind. He hyperventilated, unable to catch his breath, cringing at the pathetically childish thought. Another scream ripped through the early morning calm and the sound of a body dropping into water kicked his nerves into high gear again and he shoved the canon forward.

****

There were easier ways to stay warm besides swearing over damp firewood in a wet, stinking forest while the ugly general furrowed his bushy brows, watching Aaron and his friends judgmentally. There would be time for proving oneself, but not now. Not when the houses and people they met along the river were so obliging. 

“You really are out of your fucking mind,” Spring muttered over a campfire. Behind him, their boat--  _ Sally _ , Aaron had noted, chagrined-- rocked back and forth at the dock while the men set up camp for the night. Spring eyed his friend with a look somewhere between anger and jealousy, “We’ll be in Quebec in less than a week. We’ll capture it. We’ll come home heroic. Then the girls will be out in droves. None of this sneaking around like a criminal.”

Aaron looked at him briefly, split-second, out of the corner of his eye. Spring caught it. 

“You’re going to get caught. And Arnold is going to have you whipped. You know he will. He’s a bastard.”

“Samuel.” Aaron cut him off. “Ask the men around if they need anything from the small village down the road. I am going to gather supplies and necessities from some of the families.”

“You’re going to gather supplies.” Spring retorted, almost mocking. 

“That’s what I said,” Aaron dressed himself quickly: the warm, excited pleasantness filling his stomach and setting his nerves on edge. He felt his friend’s stare, turning, “Do you want to keep eating dogs? Or do you want me to try and coax some comforts out of the good townspeople?”

Spring exhaled frustrated, handing him the list, “ _ Comforts _ .” 

And Aaron headed out of the camp.

The first house was empty. The second, a child’s fearful face appeared at the window, and then disappeared, and Aaron thought better. The third, and elderly couple who gave him half of what they had left: dried fruit and meats, a handful of clean undershirts that looked too big for half the men back at the camp, and a small box of bitter tea. The old woman wept and clutched his hand. 

The fourth house in the row loomed.

_ What good will you be if you’re tense and distracted? _ Aaron’s internal monologue, taking on a distinctively Devilish tone, circled around his mind, looking into the face of a girl his age that had appeared at the front door. Her hair, long, shining and dark, was pulled to the side in a thick braid. 

She clutched the frame, nervous, before calming as Aaron explained the situation. Her face cracked into a grin. She was a friend. Aaron learned that her name was Marian, that she was French, that she was looking after the cottage for her father who’d traveled north on a hunting expedition, that she was nervous to be alone. 

“You’re not thinking about going back out tonight, are you?” Marian asked from inside a cabinet, digging and moving jars.

Aaron sat at the table, hat in his hands, “They’re expecting me. The rest of the men.” He indicated to his bag, filled with supplies, “I have to take the rest of this to them.”

Marian reappeared with a single loaf of bread, “I don’t have enough for everyone, I am sorry. I would have more but my father took it with him. You may take this, if you want, but I fear it will only lead to jealousy and fighting amongst the rest of your men when they realize there is not enough to go around.”

She blinked at him, holding the bread in one hand and her robe closed in the other. She waited, searching his face, then, “It is selfish of me.”

Aaron shifted in his chair, sensing the beginning of a game, “What is?”

“You’re not like the other soldiers that have visited before. You seem...well-bred.”

Aaron’s jaw clenched; the internal fight between getting what he wanted and the infernal preconceptions. 

“Do I?”

Marian nodded, yes, at ease. She set the bread down on the table in front of them and began slicing it as though they were having dinner, plowing ahead with her conversation, almost forceful, “Do you speak French? It is easier for me to converse that way.”

The snow began falling several hours later and for several pleasurable hours Aaron forgot about the wretched tents, the stinking holes filled with human waste, the rancid meat, the uncomfortable frozen ground. He pushed the guilt to the back of his mind, watching the ice pile incrementally on bare branches and dead vegetation from Marian’s bedroom window.  _ It won’t be like this for much longer, you know, _ the voice reasoned with him.  _ You’re an idiot if you think they don’t know what you’re doing. It is fine. They expect it of you.  _

A breathless moan from the girl beneath him brought him up from his worries. It was hard to focus on anything besides staying as warm as possible. 

Spring’s face greeted Aaron at the edge of the camp the next morning, fury and envy etched onto his features as he wordlessly yanked the bag of supplies.

“Took you all night to gather some old carrots then, did it?” Spring grumbled through his teeth. 

“I got lost.”

Aaron tossed a log onto the weak fire and sat. He lost himself in it, trying to hold onto the sensuous memories as though they were dissipating sparks in the winter air.

****

“Fraunce’s has finally been rebuilt,” Troup shook the newspaper out, scooting backwards til his back hit a thick wooden tent pole. He shifted on the ground, getting comfortable, eyes reading line by line, “That’s a bit of good news. The African slaves who helped rebuild it were granted freedom immediately after.”

Alexander grunted in assent, standing in the flapping doorway of the tent, staring out at the huddled men. 

Troup continued thinking out loud, “I wonder if that will be a future stipulation: help us win this war, and we will free you.”

Alexander chewed a nail and spat it out, “Not exactly a great way to endear the southern troops.”

“Well I’m just saying. It’s a thought.” Troup flipped the page idly, “And who cares about them, anyway? I don’t see them sending manpower to New York.”

“Washington is a Virginian.”

Troup faltered, “Well...alright, that’s true--”

“--There are plenty of Southerners here,” Alexander replied, off-handed. 

Troup shut the paper, “Are you looking for an argument?”

“Just thinking aloud.”

The third occupant of the tent, Nicolas, sighed loudly in his sleep, muttering something incoherent. Alexander shot him a pitying look before directing his attentions back to the camp itself, continuing, “Aren’t there doctors to come look at him? He’s been sweating like that for days.”

“Not any reputable ones. They’ve all fled.”

Alexander crossed his arms and pulled his coat tighter, glancing this way and that at the volunteers before him, breaths white in the frigid air, “I don’t like it. Too many New Englanders.”

_ “Now _ it’s the New Englanders!” Troup sighed, inaudible. “First it’s the Virginians, then The New Englanders…”

“Jay says it might not bode well for New York. Too many differing opinions, too many hot tempered Bostoners showing up to pick fights with the merchants. It’s bad. You can’t run an army if everyone is in-fighting all the time.”

“I don’t see any in-fighting…”

“Not yet, you don’t. But mark my words. It’s coming,” Alexander said ominously. He inclined his head toward the sprawled-out paper, “Whether it be the New Englanders causing hell with their blasted boycotts or the Virginians complaining about freed slaves-- it’s coming. I should write as such to Jay. Hand me the parchment.”

Troup hoisted himself from the ground, complying, “You’re sure your letters won’t get intercepted? If someone were to find out you were spying--”

“--Do not use that word, It is not spying.”

“Fine. Call it whatever you want. It’s still dangerous.” Troup stretched. “I am going to go see what the cook managed to make for breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“The loyalists are artful. Intriguing,” Alexander spoke, putting the tip of the quill to his lip, “I think I will frame it thus--” He stopped, spun in his chair, and spoke to Troup, who paused at the tent flap, shoulders falling, “--The loyalists will use the violence of the Sons for their cause. They will point to it and say, ‘See? We warned you they couldn’t be trusted.’ And everything we’ve worked so hard for will be for nothing. They will sow distrust and the cause will be dead in the water.”

“I suppose there’s some merit to that,” Troup responded, trying to sound helpful, and slowly realizing that, by the look on his friend’s face, he could have walked out and Alexander wouldn’t notice. 

“I am going to advise Jay that he should come to New York and organize support for Congress,” The clink of the quill being dipped into the well; the sound of scratching. Alexander’s words, muttered under his breath as he penned them,  _ “I shall be at all times ready to comply with your request of information concerning New York or any matters of importance that may arise.” _

“Do I...need to be here for this? Or may I grab some tiny morsel before the rest of the men get it all?”

“Bobby, listen to this--’ _ The tories will be very artful and intriguing, and it behooves us to be very vigilant and cautious. I have thrown out a hand bill or two to give the necessary alarm, and shall second them by others—” _

“-- A handbill?” Troup stepped over, eyebrows raised, “ _ Have _ you?”

“I managed to send one or two to Rivingston’s before it was demolished by the Sons.”

_ “When on earth--” _

Alexander frowned at the scrawled words: the messy handwriting, the smearing wet ink, cutting his friend off again, “I always feel as though I am being too demanding with him. I don’t want to sound….I don’t know. Impudent.”

“He’s not a bloody Lord, Alex. Can I  _ please  _ go?”

Alexander waved his hand dismissively. 

He spent the next few hours wracking his brain for ways to finish the letter. 

_ It appears to me that as the best way to keep the attention of the people united and fixed to the same point, it would be expedient that four of our Continental delegates should be candidates for this city and county-- _

And that is where his thoughts paused. Who would make good delegates? Alexander put his head down on the desk. Jay, of course. He scrawled a few more names, men he considered friendly and even-keel. 

“There should be a Livingston involved, I think,” Troup called out from his cot. 

Alexander turned, “What do you mean?”

“Henry-- excuse me,  _ Brockholst--  _ forever talking about all his stupid cousins and their ‘influence’, as he calls it. I swear his head grows bigger every time I see him. I suppose it’s a blessing to have numbers but it’s not like he had any say in it--”

“--No. He’s right,” Alexander swung his head back to the unfinished letter. 

“Oh, Alex. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Mr. Livingston is already acquainted with Congress and their dealings. It would be rude and improper to exclude him. I think I will ask for dispensation from Lamb to visit him.” Alexander responded.

From his cot, Nicolas let out another low groan, rolling over. He lifted himself weakly and looked, bleary-eyed and disoriented, at his roommates, before retching onto the cold wet ground. 

Troup jumped up, watching the scene play out, “Better see if you can find a decent doctor, too.”

****

The excuse worked. Lamb did not ask too many questions, and Alexander’s confidence was buoyed. He used the small successes to carry him through one more week of gruelingly cold days and miserable nights. On Saturday he found himself on the coach bound for Elizabethtown-- the sights and sounds of it filling him with a small twinge of nostalgia. The familiar town-- the Academy that loomed in the distance-- he took a brief moment to pause and reflect. 

_ Do not grow too attached, Alexander. It could all be gone tomorrow.  _

He tapped the unsent letter in his pocket; he tapped the door to Livingston’s manor. 

“Oh!” 

He stepped back, somewhat shocked at the girl who answered, “Kitty!”

She blinked, eyebrows dipping as though she didn’t recognize him, “...Alexander? Is that you?”

“I’m terribly sorry if I am disturbing you. It’s just that… I need to speak with your father. It’s urgent. I am sorry I cannot explain further, but I am only in town for one day before I need to report back to Captain Lamb. May I come in?” Alexander finished in one breath, slipping past KItty without waiting for her to answer. The familiar scene of the Livingstons’ foyer softened him.

“I...yes...I mean-- come right in, I suppose--” Kitty put her hand on her hip, gathering her thoughts, “They’ve gone out. I’m only here because if the house is left empty it will no doubt be torched by some British hooligans…” 

She lifted her arm and let it fall loudly, making her way back through the house in a rustle of skirts. Alexander swallowed and steadied his nerves. 

“You won’t mind if I wait here until they return? How long will they be?”

Kitty gave him a look, “You’ve changed.”

“Actually,” Alexander ignored the adrenaline that kicked into high gear at the sight of Kitty’s amused grin. 

_ Just get to it, already. Tell her what you need and go. You are on official business. You have the support of Jay.  _

Kitty made another face, “‘Actually’....what? What do you need, Alexander?”

“If I leave you with a highly confidential note for your father can I be assured he will get it? With no tampering? It is on behalf of Congress.”

Kitty’s grin spread wider and she tilted her head back in laughter. Alexander bit his tongue. 

“Excuse me. What is so funny?”

Kitty made her way to a mirror in an adjoining hallway, slipping a handkerchief from the top of her corset, and Alexander caught a loose edge of his coat on an exposed nail. He watched her dab a bit of wet mirth from the corner of her eye, searching her own reflection with a smile, “You’re so important now. Yes, Alexander. I’ll give my father your silly letter.”

Another wave of warmth.

Alexander crossed his arms. 

“I don’t see what’s so funny. What are you laughing at?”

“The last time I saw you, you were half-drunk and wandering around our backyard like an utter imbecile. Sneaking out of back bedrooms smelling like some girl’s perfume, embarrassed. Now you show up out of nowhere serving demands like some visiting prince and I am supposed to take you seriously? It’s too funny!” Kitty turned back to him, regarding, haughty. 

Alexander locked eyes with her and whipped the letter from his pocket.

Kitty took it and slid it into her dress. 

“I don’t know if I care for this new, self-important version of little Alexander,” Kitty tried a new approach. She turned back to the mirror and picked up a small metal pot of rogue; Alexander stared at her tapered finger dip into it, and apply it to her lips, puckering them and rubbing them together in the reflection, before shooting him a dark look.

Alexander held his ground, “Maybe I don’t like being spoken to like a child.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Hm,” Kitty made a noise, raising her eyebrow haughtily, and spinning on her heel in another flurry of flashing silk. She made her way to the kitchens, “Do you want anything before I send you on your way? Water? Coffee?”

Her voice echoed in the empty house; the smell of the flowers in her hair wafting behind her. The sliver of a dangerous opportunity that had presented itself to him, on a dare. Something inside Alexander clicked into place and his eyes followed her. 

“Water, if you don’t mind,” he managed. She handed it to him, locking him into place with a sparkling glare. Another few seconds of impenetrable silence passed between them while the opportunity hissed and writhed in the back of his mind. He spoke, “How can I be certain you will keep your word?”

Kitty reached out and touched his face as she’d done before, at once both familiar and infuriating, “You can trust me.”

“Don’t condescend to me, Kitty.”

“Oh! So authoritative!” She retracted her hand in another peal of lover-confident laughter and Alexander’s eye caught the rapid, nervous rise and fall of her chest, her fluttering heart, giving her away. 

“Well? You’ve had your water. You’ve delivered your letter, Captain. You may leave, now,” Kitty lifted her hand toward the door, lowering her voice, “My father will be home sometime after midnight. I would not recommend waiting here to accost him.”

“Are you sure you don’t need company? It can be very dangerous for women to be left alone in times like these,” Alexander replied. 

“I’ve heard that tone before.”

Alexander relaxed, smiling. He stepped back, keeping his gaze on Kitty, pulling out a wooden chair from beneath the table and seating himself in it. He leaned back--watching her--the way her full lips spread further into a pretty, knowing grin.

****

Aaron didn’t believe in guardian angels. 

The voice in the back of his head mocked him--  _ you said you wanted action, stupid boy. _

It wasn’t the voice of a gentle guide, or a long-dead, caring ancestor.  __

It wasn’t Jon.

It was strange and foreign. Haughty and proud and sharp, like a blade across his skin. Aaron looked down at his leg through the howling white winds to see a pool of blooming red followed by searing pain and couldn’t stop to wonder where it had come from or how it happened. It had all gone so terribly, terribly wrong.

Montgomery pushed them through the storm, against their better judgement, approaching the citadel in the fuzzy distance. Aaron swallowed a cry of pain, wincing, unable to put weight on his leg. 

Had it really only been three days since they’d cheered at the thought of finally reaching Canada? 

_ Cheered?  _

For _ this? _

There was no resistance, at first. It was the dead of night when they moved. Aaron woke with a start, shivering violently even with Spring pressed up against him for warmth. The wind screamed through the woods around them as though being torn apart and Montgomery called them to attention. It was from that point forward that Aaron felt his body move independently of his mind, shutting down his higher reasonings one by one until he felt animalistic and tense. 

As they hit the first checkpoint with minimal resistance Aaron began to delude himself-- he looked at the other men around him and figured they were thinking something similar-- _ this is too simple.  _

The letters flooded his mind. 

_ You’re going to die.  _

The sharp voice came to him again. He put one boot silently in front of the other, feeling the blood on his clothes freeze. 

_ An omen.  _

Aaron shook his head no. Another gust of wind tore his hat from his head and he reached for it, stupidly, before another soldier grabbed his arm-- “Do you want them to see you?”

“My hat--”

Aaron caught the boy’s eye, made to open his mouth to chastise him, and was interrupted by an explosion that threw him back into a nearby pine. He heard something crack-- a tumbling of icicles that rained down on him threateningly-- followed by another explosion.

_ You’re going to die. _

Aaron crawled to what he hoped was shelter. Indiscriminate voices called out in the air around him and he couldn’t make out the individual words; only the white bursts of their frozen breath against the deep blue sky and naked, black coal trees. The smell of meat filled his nostrils and Aaron, for a brief second, wondered stupidly why someone would be saving food amidst the chaos. His thoughts, jostled again, coming upon the smoldering remains of a boy his age. Soldiers ran past him, Americans and British indiscriminately. 

_ Fleeing?  _

He turned to watch them, wind picking up again; felt a hand grab his sleeve and turned to see Spring pulling him, mouth moving as if he were shouting something but Aaron couldn’t make out the words. He followed his friend’s pointing finger, squirting in the needling ice that his his exposed cheeks, to see a large figure in the distance. He yanked himself free from his friend’s fingers, scrabbling against his sleeve--  _ this way--don’t go back, what are you doing?  _

It was fleetingly incredible to Aaron how humans made themselves understood, nonverbally. 

There was no plan. 

He slipped his arm beneath the older general-- brain still running circles and providing inane commentary while his muscles ached and froze and stretched and pulled-- _ he’s nearly twice your size. He has a cut on his face. His left hand is missing, isn’t that strange, his skin is gray like a rag, like a person with a fever, is that blood or human waste, is he struggling for breath or giving a last empty rattle. Watch the logs and exposed roots and pitfalls, you’ll sprain your ankle.  _

Spring came up behind him--or, at least, Aaron’s mind told him it was Spring--  _ all your friends wouldn’t die on you, like that, don’t be absurd, it has to be him--  _ and pushed him, knocking the heavy body from his back and yanking him to the left before the general’s body was hit with another round of cannon fire. 

_ That could have been you. _

Aaron turned back and pulled his scarf off, wrapping it around Montgomery’s cracked skull. 

“What are you  _ doing?  _ For Christ’s sake, let’s go.”

More raucous shouting and the sound of men-- _ boys, I think _ \-- screaming, curdling the air. Dissipating quickly and flooding in and out of his ears like the clouds in the empty sky above them, blowing back and forth across the stars. Aaron tumbled blindly through the crunching, snapping, icy foliage of the forest with his friend, intermittent moonlight playing tricks with his failing vision. 

_ It is New Year’s eve. Your rib is broken. Your general has failed and you are alone. Observe the uncertainty of all sublunary things.  _


	20. Duties

Aaron cried himself awake for the third night in a row. He panted, feeling around his person, checking dumbly for cuts on his limbs, as hard consciousness crept into his brain. The scream of a crow outside caused him to jump again. He steadied his breath, closing and rubbing his eyes against the mid-winter chill that permeated the small, dirty cabin.

Snow began to fall outside, and Aaron sat up slowly, wincing at the numerous bruises on his chest and legs and arms, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. It was the first time in months he’d slept indoors. The locals had, once again, treated him kindly and tried as best they could to nurse him back to health but it was a slow and painful process-- made even slower by the glaring realities.

He breathed.  _ In and out, _ he said in his mind,  _ there is no one here but you.  _ A dull headache began to creep through his temples. 

That was it. Spring had been skirting him. Scared of-- of what? He couldn’t meet Aaron’s eye, visiting him twice in the cabin, standing in the bedroom doorway, holding his hat, nervous. Spring, who’d always been unguarded, now looked at him as though they spoke two different languages. Matt had been sent--commanded-- back to New Jersey. Aaron sighed. 

The hollow accolades piled up around him -- brave soldier, true patriot, inestimable sacrifice-- but the wounds were so fresh, and the fear so real, Aaron could not really comprehend any of them. 

He felt so small and fragile. _ You should have stayed studying books and Bibles, Little Burr _ , a voice taunted him,  _ there is no place for you in the glory of battle. Stripling _ . 

He lifted his left arm, grimacing, and turned to look at the massive purple mark that spread from his elbow to his shoulder. Suddenly, he felt nauseous. His stomach turned and he flung himself towards a bucket, vomiting into it. 

The wave passed, and Aaron stayed kneeling painfully in front of his mess, eyes closed. He leaned back, and tried to sift through the memories of one month ago. 

His twentieth birthday loomed on the horizon, though Quebec made him feel like he was sixty. Hobbled and old, sleepless, worrisome--  _ grave, silent, strange.  _ The piles of letters on the desk caught his eye. He could not bring himself to read the empty praise. He could hear his brother-in-law’s voice:

_ “It was happy for us that we did not know that you were an aid-de-camp, until we heard of your welfare; for we heard that Montgomery and his aid-de-camps were killed, without knowing who his aid-de-camps were.” _

Aaron didn’t know what to expect, reading the name of a dead man, would it sound different in his head?  _ No, idiot. a name is just a word.  _ And now that is all he is. 

****

Between Arnold’s temper and Aaron’s own inescapable tiredness, he spent the rest of the winter in sullen, stubborn silence, unable to formulate the words to explain his frustration. He’d made the mistake of leaving some daily notes out on his table and had come upon the general shifting through them as though they were newspapers and Aaron’s temper rose so quickly his neck ached. 

“There is no time for personal correspondence,” Arnold barked, simply, leaving no room for argument. 

“You have correspondence,” Aaron balked, before thinking. 

Arnold regarded him tiredly, coldly--refusing to even deign to answer and Aaron spent the rest of the afternoon glaring daggers at his quarters. The warm tent, glowing and comfortable with the best of their candles, blankets and meats, sat upwind from Aaron’s and his stomach rattled. 

He found that sleeping, when he could, was the only solution to the constant indignation. 

_ Be you yet alive? I have been infinitely distressed for you. _

Jon’s was the first letter to make his heart ache when he read it

_ Curse on this vile distance between us. I am restless to tell you everything; but uncertainty whether you would ever hear it bids me be silent, till, in some future happy meeting, I may hold you to my bosom, and impart to you every emotion of my heart. _

It was Bradford, a younger man, who’d interrupted his reading. 

“‘Hold you to my bosom’?” He laughed, and Aaron fumed. 

“Were you reading over my shoulder?”

Bradford shrugged, carting a basket of firewood to an opposite campsite before dumping it unceremoniously down onto the ice grass, “You’d better make sure Arnold doesn’t see that. I heard he had men whipped for sodomy last year.”

The words caught in Aaron’s throat again and his thoughts stumbled,  _ “What? _ Shut up and stop repeating idle gossip.”

“I’m telling you, he won’t stand for it,” Bradford went on, almost bored. He heaved, moving a large rock with his foot, “Prostitutes, sodomy-- if it’s an earthly pleasure he’ll whip you.”

Aaron stood and crumpled the paper; paced. 

He lifted a pointed finger towards their general’s tent, “Tell Arnold he should take a page from his own book.”

Bradford put his hands up in defense, “Look, I am only relaying what I’ve heard. Do not shoot the messenger.”

“Fuck him.” Aaron spat, shooting his unsuspecting friend a dark look. The frustrations spilled forth, and Bradford’s eyes widened. The anger was misplaced, Aaron knew, but he couldn’t stop himself, “We’re out here eating rats and he has the audacity to chastise us for prostitutes?”

Bradford shrugged, “He said the higher the rank, the better the quarters. General’s rules. If you don’t like it, I suggest taking it up with him.”

Aaron spent the night awake, counting the stars. 

****

“Well I don’t know what your blasted plan is,” Kitty shook her head, voice low, “You’d better be grateful my father enjoys pointless dinners.”

“I’m grateful your father has too many children to keep track of,” Alexander replied over the rim of his glass. 

Kitty tilted her head, “What does that mean?”

“Who’s in attendance, here?” Alexander went on, standing in the familiar foyer of the Livingston manor, gaze darting from man to man, some of whom he recognized, some who were friends he hadn’t made yet. 

Kitty sighed, adjusting her sleeve, “You’d better wipe that eager look off your face. Matthew is just in the other room. He’s going to suspect you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be. He’s the jealous type.”

Alexander turned to Kitty, “I would confess every sin I’ve ever committed to your boring husband if it meant I could get into a room with McDougal to have a serious conversation.”

“Jesus, you’re dramatic,” Kitty exhaled. “Don’t embarrass me. Don’t try to make polite conversation with my husband. When dinner is served, let the gentlemen lead the conversation and wait until there is a lull and then make your verbal entrance. Haven’t you done this before?”

The sting from her insult hit Alexander in a way that made him feel almost pleasant. She placed her empty glass on a side table and made her way down the crowded hallway where her father’s dinner guests milled and spoke, low, purposeful. Alexander followed her. 

“Yes. Of course. But--”

Kitty stopped, turning, repeating, “--Can you  _ please  _ not look so bloody eager?”

Alexander took a deep breath, regarded her for a moment, “Kitty.”

“Alexander.”

“This is extremely important. You must understand.” Alexander lowered his voice again, gently leading her to a quiet corner of an empty office. She made a face; pursed her lips and stared at a spot in front of her nose while Alexander continued. 

“The New York provincial congress has ordered that an artillery company be created-- you know what artillery means, right--”

_ “--Alexander, I will hit you--” _

“--I have applied for command of it,” he finished, slowly letting go of Kitty’s arm. 

She rolled her eyes, bluntly, “They give those positions to gentlemen. Recognizable names. Native New Yorkers. Not  _ you _ .”

Alexander swallowed his irritation, “Yes. I am aware. But I think, with your help-- I just need you to...politely...raise the subject. Ask for my opinion on it. Perhaps you can pretend to be interested in the provincial congress itself. Wait until after dinner, when the drinks are flowing more freely.”

“Fine,” Kitty rubbed her eyes, thinking, then, locking Alexander into place with a pointing finger, “But you have to promise me I will not be made to look stupid. Or frivolous. Matthew already thinks I’m too distractible.”

“Sweet girl.”

“Do not patronize me,” Kitty shot back. 

Alexander grinned, “It will be fine.”

“It had better be. The men at that table…” she trailed off, thinking for a moment, “...You’re sticking your head in a viper’s pit, frankly. I know  _ Jay  _ likes you, but he is strange. The grumpy looking man--just there, with his finger in his nose--” she inclined her head, and Alexander followed her gaze, “--That’s the man you’ll want to impress. The artillerist, Bedlam. _ Stop staring!” _

Alexander raised an eyebrow. Kitty continued.

“I am going to mingle. If you want to make a good impression don’t hide out in my father’s den all night. Count to twenty, and then make your way to the dining room. Fix your hair and look presentable.”

She left in a flurry, and Alexander absentmindedly put a hand to his head. 

_ Captain Hamilton. What a good cadence it has. _

He counted to twenty; the sounds of heels and boots hitting the shining wood floor. Low conversations and pleasant laughter. Alexander downed the last of his sherry--wincing--and headed in the same direction Kitty had been.

He followed the sound of her voice, and came upon the long table, nodding pleasantly at the recognizable faces. Jay met his gaze, and smiled, almost knowing, eyes darting between Alexander and Kitty. He excused himself from his wife and Alexander froze in pace as he made his way over.

“You’re looking a bit green, Hamilton. Come sit next to Sarah and I,” Jay indicated to an empty chair, and Alexander complied. 

Kitty sat next to her husband, mid story, a group of men watching her; her tapered fingers and glittering bracelets dancing in the low light of the candles while she relayed something humorous. She seated herself next to Alexander, and he stiffened. 

“Don’t be afraid of the tomatoes,” Jay muttered, off-hand. “They’re quite edible.”

Alexander blinked, “No. I’m fine.”

The sounds of forks and knives hitting the plates intertwined with indistinguishable conversations and Alexander suddenly felt frightfully out of place. Kitty’s breathless laughter tethered him to the present moment; he chewed the food and felt it slide down his throat, as dry and tasteless as sawdust. He waited.  _ Make the entrance. Open the conversation. _ Alexander tapped his foot.

“So,” it was Jay, to his left, who interrupted his thoughts, “Tell me what you’ve busied yourself with, Hamilton. We congressmen so rarely get to speak to the men on the ground--if you’ll pardon the expression.”

Kitty’s voice, to Alexander’s right: “...Three times she’s threatened to run away. I don’t know why Schuyler can’t keep better hold of his daughters. It’s embarrassing, honestly…”

“Oh, this and that,” Alexander replied. He nudged Kitty beneath the table, and she turned to him. 

“What? I’m getting there,” She hissed. 

“Well hurry.”

Kitty turned pink, frustrated, hiding her face with the wipe of a white linen napkin. She pursed her lips again, letting out a long exhale. 

“I take it you’ve all heard about Quebec by now?” She dropped her frown and replaced it instantaneously with a pretty smile, gathering the tables’ attention. Several of the older gentlemen raised their eyebrows, impressed. She went on, cheerful, “I myself cannot stop thinking about it. Those poor boys. We should make a toast to the memory of General Montgomery.”

She lifted her glass, movement as smooth as water. Alexander followed her lead, suddenly leaden. 

“Yes. Terrible thing,” Livingston added, sadly. 

Jay leaned forward, interested, “I only know bits and pieces of the story.”

Alexander opened his mouth; closed it while Livingston spoke over him. 

“Terrible story,” he reiterated, swallowing and shaking his head, “He attacked on the morning of the thirty-first of December...the snow was so thick, there was confusion--Apparently someone fired before being commanded to, and then hell broke loose. Montgomery was killed outright _.  _ Along with his aids.”

The table descended into murmurs. Bedlam, seated across from Alexander, raised a fork, “I tell you, the entire thing was damned from the beginning. They were forcing the barrier, and the accidental discharge killed ‘em all. It was a piece of artillery from the British battery, when the American front was within just  _ forty  _ paces of it, imagine. It would be like if a cannon fired at the back of this house, while we sit here.”

Kitty nodded politely at him, watching a green bean drop onto the tablecloth. 

Bedlam chewed, looking into his plate, “Killed Montgomery _ and  _ McPherson,  _ and  _ one of McPherson’s aids, and every other person in front, except Major Burr and some chaplain. General Montgomery was within a few feet of Burr--”

Alexander felt the name slam into his thoughts like a battering ram.

Jay exhaled, shaking his head, wiping his hand, “--Then that must be the boy you heard about, Sarah. The one who tried to carry his body. Horrible. I cannot imagine the terror. What a brave soldier--”

“--That couldn’t have happened. Burr is my size,” Alexander interjected, without thinking. The table quieted again, eyes landing on him as if they’d forgotten he was there. He immediately regretted it; felt Kitty’s foot swing at his shin.

Bedlam shot him a vaguely amused look, “Doesn’t matter, when you’re in peril like that, the body gets stronger somehow. I’ve seen men lift twice their size when the moment demands it. But you can believe what you want-- what is your name?”

“Hamilton.”

“Well, Hamilton, I don’t know what action you’ve seen, but…”

Their voices muffled together, arguing amongst themselves, the fire crackling and popping noisily. The din from the conversations around Alexander blurred into an indistinct hum as he let Bedlam talk at him, the report from the siege of Quebec--  _ the bravery which Little Burr had exhibited _ \-- 

“--Who’s your contact in Philadelphia, Livingston?” Jay pushed food around on his plate. Alexander’s focus snapped back to the present at the unpleasant scraping of the metal fork against the pewter plate. 

“Colonel Reed. He wants to reserve a spot for the boy on Washington’s staff. Secretary, I should think. Well. If anyone deserves it, it’s Major Burr. But it’s no surprise, frankly,” Livingston went on. “We shall see.”

“I think I would prefer my own company. I believe in a more hands-on approach,” Alexander cut in again-- and once again the older men regarded him with exasperated interest. He pressed ahead, ignoring the heat traveling towards his face; imagined himself diving off a ledge. 

“Mr. Jay,” Alexander addressed the man to his left directly, “What do you think it would take for that to happen?”

“Well… I--” Jay faltered, eyes glancing furtively at the rest of the table, “--I think that would be a question for the military men here, rather than myself.”

Livingston pointed at Alexander, jovial, “Now there’s the ambitious boy I know. We shall find you your own position on someone’s staff. Would you like that, Hamilton?”

The conversation took on a patronizing tone. Alexander searched the faces of the men around him.

“That is precisely what I said,” Jay replied, helpful, expression shifting.

A different man Alexander didn’t recognize cut in, “Is that fool Boudinot still buying ammunition and gunpowder out of his own pocket and sending it to Massachusetts?”

“He is, and it’s taking terribly slowly,” Jay answered. “There is opportunity there, Hamilton. Perhaps Mr. Livingston could put in a word with Stirling, for a position organizing his books and making sure the supplies get to their intended destination quickly. You would be quite good at that.”

Alexander’s mouth went dry, “You’re too kind.”

“A brilliant plan, Mr. Jay,” Livingston concluded, “I will write to my brother-in-law at the next post. He has sway with the board of governors at King’s. Shocked I didn’t think of this myself!”

A tug at Alexander’s sleeve; Kitty’s voice, hushed:  _ “This is the best I could do for you,”  _ Alexander felt her stir next to him while the rest of the table changed topics, laughing amongst themselves. She downed a glass of golden wine, and laughed at her husband’s jokes. 

****

“The worst thing they can say is no, Bobby,” Alexander remarked, some weeks later, as he folded his letter and stuffed it into an envelope, trying not to think about it’s contents. He walked around the dorm, visually taking inventory of the remaining items in his sparse room. 

“The worst thing is that you’ve turned down-- _ highly coveted,  _ I might add-- two respectable generals’ wishes for you to become an aide for what I can only describe as a blazing fantasy.” Troup hitched his slouching bag on his shoulder, and stared at Hamilton. He pointed a finger, “You’d better hope this little gamble works, or you’re going to end up looking like an upstart.”

“Livingston likes me. Jay likes me,” Alexander responded, trying not to sound smug. 

“And?”

“And, if I can convince Harpur to convince Bedlam--”

_ “--Seriously?” _

“Bobby--trust me for once,” Alexander said. He craned his neck, looking for the mail-carrier out the window. “Harpur has given me great marks in mathematics. He said he was  _ impressed _ . My grades will be here any day now.”

The clock in the courtyard rang on the hour. 

“What’s the plan, then?: Troup asked, “They’re already talking about your behavior at Livingston’s dinner last month-- talking out of turn and interrupting the men-- if you’re still trying to  _ fit in _ you’re doing a bad job at it,” He concluded sharply.

Alexander set to work on more immediately controllable things. 

“I don’t want to hear about that blasted dinner anymore. And tell Thompson that if he has something to say he can say it to my face rather than talking about it to my friends. Besides. It was the ‘blasted dinner’, as you say, that interested Harpur. He is friends with Bedlam, and they talked about me.” 

“They talked about your impetuousness,” Troup muttered, rubbing his forehead. 

“--They talked about me, and I have no doubt Harpur relayed my good marks to Bedlam, who is looking for--” 

“--An artillery captain.” Troup finished, tiredly. 

_ “An artillery captain.”  _ Alexander echoed. 

Troup lifted a hand, standing, “I am going to report to Fleming for this afternoon’s drills. Are you coming or are you going to sit here writing plays in your head?”

Alexander ignored him, and Troup left. 

It was March when the letter finally came.

_ On behalf of the PROVINCIAL CONGRESS Alexander Hamilton is appointed Captain of the Provincial Company of Artillery of this colony.  _ The tiny slip of paper, looking as though it were an afterthought-- shook in the breeze as he read it four times. Troup walked up to him, panting in the sun, shielding his eyes, the sounds of the drilling troops behind him. 

Alexander held the note out to his friend, who took it. 

Troup looked back up at him, “I cannot  _ believe  _ that worked.”

“You doubted me?”

It was those moments Alexander lived for: the daring plan and the wondrous looks on his friends’ faces when it worked out. 

It never ended, he realized-- the mental movement that carried him from day to day. 

“New clothes, Bobby. That is what I’ll need.” Alexander spoke, heading toward the tailor’s the Sunday after Easter.

Troup kept pace, “Most men in your position would be worried about their physical well being, not their breeches.”

_ Good impressions,  _ Alexander heard himself mumbling. He watched, almost detached, the last of his scholarship money being counted by the tailor, swept unceremoniously into his till before he disappeared into the backroom to find the measuring tape and fabrics. 

With each new dawn, Alexander learned more and more about the mission he’d coordinated for himself. He learned that he was to recruit thirty men. Mulligan caught up with him for coffee, shaking the rain from his hat before sitting down at a tiny, dirty table. He slurped a dish of tea loudly, wearing the excitement on his face. Alexander listened, detecting a hint of fatherly pride, and his heart ached. 

“Lieutenants, sergeants, corporals, bombardiers, gunners.” Mulligan listed the positions off one by one on his fingers, brows furrowed in thought. 

Alexander knew the issue before his old friend could even voice it, “I suspect we won’t have enough money to pay thirty men their fair dues. They’ll be expecting continental wages, not the meager provincial ones.”

He caught Mulligan’s eye, and wished he hadn’t dampened the mood. 

****

Matt’s letter, filled with promise and planning, landed in Aaron’s hands one cold morning, camped overnight on the banks of a river that stank of algae and dead fish and as he scanned the words too quickly to take them all in at once, he was quietly in awe of his meddlesome, busy cousin. 

_ Some weeks have elapsed since I saw our friends Walker and Price. Today I met with Hopkins at this place. My first inquiry was for letters from you. I mean not to upbraid you. This is the third time of my writing since I left you. I shall continue it, with the hope of giving you some small satisfaction.  _

The same song-- the begging for letters Aaron knew he couldn’t compose even if he had all the time in the world. The bland platitudes froze in his hand before he could commit them to parchment.  _ What in God’s name could you say that would make sense to them? _ Aaron read on. 

_ Miss Dayton is well, and will soon be mine. Barber is appointed major in the third Jersey battalion, of which Dayton is colonel. _

The familiar names made Aaron smile. Barber had left his academy, with Dayton trailing on his heels. Aaron recalled the gangly, younger boy--at once both awkward and forceful--and wondered whether he’d be able to stand up to the hardships of war. Wondered whether he had the stomach for it. 

He paused, and his thoughts turned to the rest of the boys who’d attended the academy. 

A new thought--bright and unpleasant--illuminated his mind. A dormant memory. Hamilton’s grinning face, knowing, almost cruel, in the dark:  _ You’re not joining the army. Is that what you tell girls? Don’t take this the wrong way but I don’t see how you will make a difference. You read the papers, like me. You saw the reports, heard about the action. Let me guess. You felt like you were missing out? _

He shifted uneasily on his cot. Why did this memory sting more than the others? He lost himself in the thought for a moment, trying to place it, concluding that Alexander had been patently wrong--that Aaron  _ had  _ joined the army. He  _ had  _ read the papers. He  _ had  _ been with beautiful girls. He  _ had  _ seen action. And where was Hamilton, at this moment? 

Matt’s letter. Aaron swallowed the righteous adrenaline that rose up in his arms and neck. 

_ I was kindly received on my arrival at Philadelphia. The Congress have since appointed me lieutenant-colonel in the first Jersey battalion. Elizabethtown swarms with girls, among which is Miss Noel. I have not seen Miss Ricketts. _

Aaron tilted his head back, closed his eyes in exasperated embarrassment. _ Get to the point, Matt, would you? _

_ When I was in Philadelphia, Colonel Reed said there was a vacancy in General Washington's family, and had no doubt his recommendation would procure a post for me. I declined it, hoping to get a more active office, but desired he would procure it for you. _

Aaron’s attention piqued, reading on, skipping every other word and then going back to reread. 

_ Washington is expected in New York, when I shall have a better chance of bringing it about. _

He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, following the scent of cooking beef drifting out of Arnold’s tent. He braced himself, pausing in front of the flaps. He steadied himself, folding the letter and shoving it into his pocket, before entering the tent without knocking. 

Arnold looked up from his plate, the dead-eyed stare unflinching, “Burr. You’re supposed to make an appointment.”

“This couldn’t wait,” he straightened his back. 

The general swallowed a piece of meat, looking back down at a book that sat next to his plate. He lifted his hand to accord Aaron the floor, almost bored. 

“I have received a letter from my cousin saying my presence is requested in Albany,” he lied. 

“An impossibility. You are in Maine.”

Aaron’s neck warmed, “Yes. I know that. I am going to head down to him.”

“I do not have time to entertain your boredom, Burr,” Arnold grumbled, in a voice that told Aaron he was nearing the end of his patience. 

“I can have a boat ready in two hours. I can find a handful of men to aid me. I can start tomorrow morning at six o'clock.”

“Are you deaf?”

Aaron tensed again, trying a new angle, “No. These are Washington’s orders, sir.”

“I don’t give a blasted fuck what Washington’s orders are. I don’t believe you for two seconds. Now get back to your tent before I commandeer it and make you sleep in the dirt.”

This was the end of the conversation and Aaron turned on his heel, biting his tongue and returning outside. The river churned. He looked at it and the small row of boats bobbing gently in the movement. He stared at it for so long his eyes burned.

_ The bravery which Little Burr has exhibited. _

He turned from the water after a moment, looking back at Arnold’s tent, the mismatched words and actions that told him one thing and treated him like another clashing violently. 

He rose the next morning at six, silent. Slipped out of his own tent in the wet pre-dawn, gathered four men, and was off without a second look, oars slicing through the cold water like torn paper.

****

_ Received of Colonel McDougal one hundred and seventy two pounds, three shillings and five pence half penny, for the pay of the Commissioned, Non commissioned officers and privates of my company to the first instant, for which I have given three other receipts. _

Alexander tossed the quill down, taking his frustrations out on the inanimate object, watching it hit the paper, leaving a wet black mark. He chewed the same spot on his lip, the inside of his cheek-- _ this will not do.  _

_ What’s one more embarrassment? _

“That is not the plan,” Alexander muttered indistinctly, to no one. 

He despaired, recalling the lunch he’d had with Mulligan earlier the same day. 

“One step forward, two steps back,” The older man grumbled, reading the note. “In God’s name, how does Congress expect anything to get done if they’re not going to give us the resources to do it?” He bent over the table, eyes moving back and forth, rereading the letter for what Alexander thought was the hundredth time. 

“If I say anything at all, they’re going to think I want an increase in pay for myself,” Alexander lamented. 

“You’ll just have to convince them otherwise,” Mulligan replied, still avoiding his gaze. 

Alexander’s hand was forced one slate-gray Tuesday, looking from the note to the beardless face of the young volunteer that handed it to him. 

“Have you read this? The seal is broken.” He muttered, trying not to sound accusatory; failing.

The young volunteer shrank, “They… told me what it said. Someone else opened it. Not me, Captain Hamilton, sir.”

Alexander pursed his lips-- the orders were to relive McDougal’s first New York regiment--starting as soon as possible--guarding the state's official records at the courthouse. _ Papers, records, bookkeeping, ephemera. Will you ever escape it? _

“The records are being shipped from the courthouse to a safer location, I gather,” the young volunteer kept speaking, following Alexander as he made his way back to his bunk, “Bayard’s mansion. They want us to guard the shipment. It sounds terribly dangerous. Don’t know why they’re using us, and not the Continentals--”

“--We cost less,” Alexander cut him off between his clenched teeth. 

And so, he was here: biting his tongue and facing the wretchedness of begging head-on. 

_ I take the liberty to request your attention to a few particulars, which will be of considerable importance to the future progress of the company under my command, and I will be much obliged to you for as speedy a determination concerning them as you can conveniently give. The most material is respecting the pay. _

He paused, looking out a slit in the tent at the men around him. Pretended, for a moment, the watery mud and stench of unwashed poverty was the same as it had been on Nevis. It wasn’t a stretch. He wondered briefly about all the people he’d left behind-- Cruger, Mags, his neighbors-- their faces blending indiscriminately with the sallow, exhausted ones of the men around him. The guilt tugged at him until he quieted it with his pen. 

He drew two columns, putting the end of the quill to his bottom lip, wracking his brain for the correct payment amounts accorded to members of the Continental army. 

> _ Captain: £10, 13s _
> 
> _ Captain-lieutenant: £8 _
> 
> _ Lieutenants, each £7, 6s _
> 
> _ Sergeants: £3, 6s _
> 
> _ Corporals: £3, 1s _
> 
> _ Bombardiers: £1s, 4d _
> 
> _ Gunners: £3 _
> 
> _ Drummers and fifers: £3 _

Each stroke of his quill and subsequent realization made him angrier and angrier. By the bottom of the list his handwriting was so disturbed it was almost unreadable.  _ By comparing these with my payrolls, you will discover a considerable difference.  _ As he wrote the thoughts became clearer--  _ they do not value you, Little Hamilton, though you are doing as dangerous a job as any failed Quebec mission _ \--and the righteous anger dug sharper. 

_ I make this application on behalf of my company, as I am fully convinced such a disadvantageous distinction will have a very pernicious effect on the minds and behavior of the men. They do the same duty with the other companies, and think themselves entitled to the same pay. _

Alexander swallowed the twinge of humiliation, once again, handing it to the young volunteer and sending him galloping off. 

“You have no shame, I’ll give you that,” a man called Brown said as they gathered around a small fire later that evening. To his left, Troup nodded. 

“I agree. Don’t get offended,” he added, sighing, “It is presumptuous to address Congress in such a way. But I suppose there’s nothing that can be done.”

Alexander stabbed a leaf with a stick, “We will not know until we ask.”

****

The summer solstice stretched the day out, long and languishing, and Aaron realized-- with bright, burning, midday clarity, what his lot was slowly becoming. And as his tired horse trudged further into the clearing where the boxy, neoclassical manor stood housing the man who was to become his new boss, he wondered briefly if it was always leading to this.

He hopped off the animal, tied it to a nearby post, and looked around, already defensive. Richmond Hill was beautiful: surrounded by flowering bushes and lush trees, a small pod inhabited by some geese, rolling green grass and a well-tended garden. Here and there a servant or slave disappeared and reappeared, busy along with young soldiers of all races. Aaron patted the horse and headed toward the large house, trying to remember what Matt had said in his letters about the Commander in Chief. If, as Aaron was beginning to fear, he was as pampered and set-apart as Arnold had been. If he was as unlikeable. 

_ Surely not. _

“Are you Major Burr?” 

Aaron turned to see a younger soldier, “I am. I have letters of introduction for Washington--”

“--General Washington,” the younger soldier corrected him, “He’s just inside. I think he was expecting you this morning.”

“There was a bit of rain and the creek about four miles up overflowed--”

The younger soldier tsk-tsk’d, shaking his head, almost helpful, “--He’s not gonna want to hear excuses.” He dropped his gaze and untethered Aaron’s horse, leading him to a nearby barn without asking. Aaron wanted to speak more to the young soldier, suddenly on edge, about what else the general didn’t want to hear. He watched him disappear, words caught in his throat. Richmond Hill loomed.

The door was answered by an older man, Aaron guessed in his forties, both polite and well-dressed. He moved to the side, beckoning that Aaron step inside, and the stifling heat from inside the manor itself hit him with uncomfortable immediacy. 

“Thank you. Does he always keep it hot in here?” Aaron breathed, removing his hat and overcoat. 

The older servant took his garments, “Yes, sir. Says it helps with his joints.”

“But it’s June.”

The old man shrugged, helpless, a flicker behind his eyes asking him, nonverbally,  _ What exactly do you think I can do about it? _

Aaron averted his gaze, “Where is he, then? I am to present my papers to him. Shall I find him in his office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Clark,” he answered, face impassive, “I have been a member of General Washington’s household for twenty years. Is there anything else, sir?”

Aaron shook his head, and Clark took his leave-- the troublesome nervousness bubbling inside Aaron once again. He reached for a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped a band of sweat from his necktie, loosening it. 

He heard Washington before he saw him: low, rumbling voice, demanding attention in the next room. Aaron followed it and came upon the commander. He addressed a handful of aides, dwarfing them, and the darkened look in his expression told Aaron he was not in a good mood. He stepped forward, and cleared his throat. 

“Greetings, sir.”

A pair of dull grey eyes looked up; several of the younger men turned in his direction.

“Greetings. You must be Major Burr,” Washington scanned him, “Where is your hat and uniform?”

“I...it was warm, so I removed them.”

Washington nodded and looked back at his papers, mouth twitching in what Aaron assumed to be annoyance, discomfort, or both, and he responded, “In the future please dress as befitting your rank, Major.”

Aaron looked again at each of his aides: three of them, all beneath him in age. 

“Forgive me, sir. I will remember that, in the future. However I have seen, unfortunately, some fellow soldiers suffer when the heat is too great. Perhaps a redesign of the uniform code, or a reexamination of conduct will be something I can help you with.”

_ Yes, that sounded good. Helpful, even.  _

Aaron was then hit with a glare so decisively unfriendly it made him physically uncomfortable, the old General regarding him as though he’d been slapped. Aaron stepped back, instinctively.

“When I need your assistance in such matters I will ask for it, Major Burr. Until then please see to it that Clark shows you to your room and gives you your orders for the rest of the evening.”

An aide walked over to him and took his papers, handing them to Washington, while another ushered him out of the office. The door clicked shut in Aaron’s face--and he was alone again.

  
  


****

The city was unrecognizable, like a windswept island after a hurricane. 

They commandeered the empty houses and manors that had been abandoned by the fleeing loyalists. Alexander stepped inside one such mansion and the stifling beauty made his chest ache. The beautiful, inlaid wood of the shining floors, the heavy damask curtains collecting dust, the matching dining room sets and upholstered chairs-- it almost hurt when he saw his company ransacking it for any sort of supply they could find, still unable to secure extra funding from Congress-- Alexander’s spinning mind liked to remind him, daily. 

_ Occupy yourself. Stop waiting around for the mail, for God’s sake, you look like a lovesick schoolboy. _

They trolled empty warehouses, scattering the mice and roaches that had taken up residency, finding whole sacks of molding grain and dried fruits, picking out the inedible parts and cobbling together a mismatched dinner.

They wandered empty taverns and loft buildings, stripping them of wooden planks and nails. It was hard, Alexander lamented, not to think of the days spent drinking and talking with his friends. 

_ Had it been less than a year ago? _

There was no time for reminiscing. There was no time to wonder what had become of Reeve, or his pretty wife, or Dayton, or Jane, or Henry or Matt or--

The galloping of a horse cut his thoughts short; Alexander dropped a shovel he’d been using as a wedge, trying to break apart a stone wall that lined a dead garden in an empty house full of someone else’s ghosts. 

“Little Hamilton!”

Alexander squinted in the sun, fanned his shirt and shielded his eyes; Aaron yanked the reigns of his horse and steadied it, smile spreading across his face. Alexander mimicked his grin reflexively, watching the other soldier unseat himself and hop down. He scanned Aaron quickly as he walked closer-- _ the hero of Quebec.  _

Before Alexander could speak Aaron pulled him into a hug and his shovel hit the pile of stones with a clatter. 

“Little Hamilton,” he mumbled again, pulling back, “What a welcome sight you are.”

“You as well,” Alexander steadied himself, dizzy, the scent of Aaron’s clothes lingering in his mind-- _ the hero of Quebec, and here you are gathering boulders. Does he look different? Older? Tired and world-weary? Do you? _

Burr held him at arm’s length, squeezing his muscle, briefly, friendly, “You look good. I pray you’ve been able to stay in good health these past few months. I have heard nothing but dark reports from New York--when I get any at all.”

Hamilton cleared his throat and picked up the pieces of his scattered thoughts. 

“I am...well, I suppose I am as happy and healthy as can be expected,” he answered to the backdrop of the low conversation amongst his small company. He looked around again, suddenly aware of his threadbare clothing, the sweat stains, the hole in the side of his boot. He absentmindedly picked up the shovel and resumed digging at the base of a particularly stubborn stone, each clank matching to his heartbeats. 

“And you, Little Burr?” Alexander lifted the stone with a grunt, rolling it to the pile to his left. 

Aaron bent down and picked up a few loose twigs, moving them out of the way, “I have been stationed with General Washington, up the road. When I heard Captain Hamilton had a company in the vicinity I had to come see the little Nevisian miracle for myself.”

Alexander swore as he misjudged the depth of a nearby hole, losing his footing. 

“Careful, Captain,” Burr grinned.

“You are…” Hamilton rubbed his eyes, words pouring out before he could stop them, “...Did you say you have a place on Washington’s staff? Doing what? Surely you would rather see more action. Did he give you your own company, as I have?”

“Yes. Correspondence. I will endeavor to ask him. And no.” Aaron marked off each question with his fingers, expression darkening. He paused while Alexander kept digging. Then, “What...exactly...are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Aaron laughed at this and Alexander tried to ignore the way his voice deepened, almost dusky-- _ the sound of a man, not a boy. _ He removed his necktie, exhaling, “In short, we are commandeering what we can of this sad, empty city. The Tories abandoned it. King’s is to be turned into a hospital. We are to use whatever boulders we can find to fortify it--repurposing them. But the men are...tired. I fear their energies have waned.”

Alexander finished his unguarded thought, leaning on the handle of the shovel and raising an arm to the seventy or so men that worked around him. He felt Aaron’s eyes on him again.

“And what of your energies?”

Hamilton brought his gaze back to the other soldier, “I stay busy. You never answered my question.”

“It slipped my mind, Little Hamilton.”

Several of the men nearby looked up, and Alexander dropped his voice, putting the shovel down and stepping closer, “I asked you what you were doing this evening. And please do not call me that in front of my men. ‘Captain Hamilton’, if you don’t mind. It builds authority.”

Aaron’s face split into a grin, “ _ Captain _ Hamilton. I am taking advantage of some free time to survey the area and acquaint myself with it. The inanity of Washington’s correspondence surpasses belief. I have finished the day’s tasks and am looking for something to do.”

Alexander blinked, “Don’t say that. He is the commander in chief. You  _ must  _ respect him.”

“Is the entire city empty?”

“Major?”

Burr turned to him, “The city. Is there nowhere to get dinner? Good company? A dish of tea?”

Hamilton’s gaze flattened, “You’re kidding me, right? How can you even think about that at a time like this? Half these men get one meal a day. Most have not seen their women in six months, or more. Tea is a distant memory. You cannot--”

“ _ \--Morale _ , Captain,” Aaron wrapped his arm around Alexander, whose train of thought had suddenly gone off the rails. Aaron went on, “You cannot expect the men to work themselves to the bone with no breaks. You must take care of yourself. And them.”

“Do you know what my daily duties are?” Hamilton asked, voice slightly raised. “General Washington will be inspecting my men at the end of the month and if things are not up to his standards I might as well abandon my post and go live in the woods. What do you make of that?”

“I think you are just as dramatic as you’ve always been. I hear there are some establishments by Trinity Church,” Burr changed the topic, cryptically, pressing a hand to Hamilton’s chest, “Take some of your men, and join me.”

“I cannot.” Alexander shook him off, picking up the shovel again. 

Aaron was insistent, “You will see-- when the men are satisfied, they’ll work harder. Think of the things they’ve seen. Think of the hardships they have endured.”

Alexander glanced at him, almost nervous to look him in the eye-- _ why? What are you afraid of? _

“I know that, Major. What do you think I have been doing for the past six months?” Hamilton braced himself against Burr’s inscrutable gaze, “Letter after letter to the provincial congress, asking for better pay. Asking for lighter uniforms, so the men don’t sweat as much. Bargaining against the continental soldiers’ wages since we are paid  _ less  _ for doing  _ more  _ than they do. The cannons need manning. The artillery needs organization. Some of these men still do not know how to properly load a musket. That is what I have been doing.”

“You cannot soothe  _ all  _ their wounds,” Aaron dropped his voice again and it hit Alexander in his stomach, curling, insinuating. He continued, stepping back in the direction of his horse, “If you change your mind, Captain Hamilton, meet me at Trinity Church.”

Burr smiled at him one final time bowing-- _ dramatic, ridiculous, insulting _ \--and mounted his horse again. Hamilton gripped the handle of the shovel so tight he felt a blister burst, swearing and shaking his hand as the pain radiated through him.


	21. Rescue

Aaron hadn’t told Washington where he was going and if he were being honest with himself, on his third glass of wine, he didn’t care. The slim, tan, hazel-eyed woman at his mouth certainly didn’t. She didn’t care about cooked dog. She didn’t care about freezing rain seeping through a rotting, moth-eaten tent. She didn’t want to hear about Quebec, or the sound of a bone snapping in the wind, or the way blood flavored the air when multiple men died at once, or the feeling of a corpse on his back. 

The tavern was almost empty, save for a few older men that Aaron thought probably spent most nights there. He noticed with some chagrin the windows that faced the church had curtains pulled down. 

“You are distracted,” the tan woman, Louisa, seated on his lap, purred. 

“I am.” Aaron downed the last of his wine, searching her attractive face, “But it is not your fault.”

“Is it the wine?”

Aaron looked around again, then back at Louisa, whose full red lips made his skin flush, “I was expecting someone. Or at least hoping he’d show. An old friend.”

Louisa, to his surprise, laughed, “You don’t look like you have old friends. You look like all your friends are young soldiers, like yourself.”

“Old in spirit,” Aaron smiled at her. 

Louisa busied herself at his neck. Aaron closed his eyes, letting the week slide off him with every caress of her mouth. 

Nothing he did was right, or good enough, or exact, for Washington. When he smiled, he was being coy. When he worked quickly, diligently, he was being careless. Too slow, and he was a sluggard. When he was serious and withdrawn-- a sullen and miserable child. It had been one week, and Aaron was dreaming of his escape. 

The proven soldier. The fretting supplicant. The _disconnect_. 

His mouth found Louisa’s again and he pushed the abstract thoughts down, letting the pleasurable, concrete ones supplant them. Thought about the sly-faced aides that hovered around Washington--about them trying to find where he’d gone for the night--and it made him hotter. 

The front door creaked, and shut with a dull thud. Aaron turned in his seat-- and there Alexander stood, looking at once out of place and completely at home in the low-lit whorehouse. 

“I knew you would show. Where are your friends?” Aaron greeted him, sliding out from beneath Louisa, who eyed Alexander with pink-cheeked interest. 

“I wanted to see if this place was as bad as they say,” Alexander looked around, mouth twitching up at the side, “...And it is. I cannot condone any of my men getting involved in...whatever this is.”

“Are you here to chastise us all?” 

An old man slept, drunk, at the bar, small pool of spit at the side of his mouth. The owner sat with his nose in a book, surly, eyeing the two young men occasionally. Louisa waved from her seat at the far end of the room. Alexander looked like he wanted to laugh. 

“This is improper conduct for a soldier, Major Burr. You should not be here.”

Hamilton’s seriousness tickled him, and Burr smiled, “And yet here I am. Come, sit with us.”

“I’m not staying.”

“Yes you are,” Aaron motioned for the barmaid to hand him another glass of alcohol, handing it to Alexander in one swift movement. He watched Alexander’s mouth open, slightly, at the sight of the liquor. Saw him take the sip against his better judgement. Realized it felt better to break the rules with a friend, rather than alone. 

“There. What do you think of that?” Aaron muttered, seating him next to Louisa. 

“I think I can only stay for one drink,” Alexander answered, eyeing Louisa-- _trying not to stare,_ Aaron thought. He watched Alexander loosen up in waves: the tensely wound up soldier that pushed his company to its limits in the midday sun replaced with the bright, smiling boy that greeted Aaron from the islands. The easy laugh replacing the hard lines that didn’t suit him. _Now you’re staring._

“Tell us about your artillery duties, Captain Hamilton,” Aaron leaned in; watched his color deepen, eyed the weapon at his back, “I see you brought an example for us.”

Alexander found this funny, laughing into his glass, “Oh, that. Stripped it from an abandoned ship.” He paused, then pulled it out in front of them, handling it as though it were priceless and not, Aaron concluded smartly, a literal piece of garbage. 

Louisa shifted in her seat, eyeing first the gun, then the soldier that held it, her curiosity piqued, “You...stole it?”

“I prefer the term ‘recommissioned’,” Alexander replied. He straightened his back, as if remembering something dark, “The British have banned the manufacture of iron. We have no choice.”

“I see.”

“Louisa has quite a solid view of morality,” Aaron cut in, almost slurring, “Theft is wrong. No room for the grey areas of life.”

Louisa gave him a look, “I was raised Christian.”

Aaron collapsed into laughter. 

“I must be going, now, I think,” Alexander said suddenly, pushing his empty glass further away and disentangling himself from Louisa’s naked arm. He stood and turned, “Major Burr, you know what I am going to say. As lovely as Louisa is I truly think you should head back to Washington and apologize for your absence.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Hamilton stiffened, persistent, “It is getting late and I have much to do before he inspects my men next month. Come back with me and help.”

Burr leaned into Louisa’s neck, “Little Hamilton is looking out for my soul.”

“I am looking out for the reputation of our army and the Commander himself.”

“Why don’t you just go ahead and stomp your foot already?” Aaron gave him his full attention; Louisa looked, entertained, from soldier to soldier. He went on, “If you are going to be a bloody needling killjoy just leave now. Otherwise let me spend the evening with this beautiful woman and you can go back to your camp and play with your _gun_ by yourself.” 

Louisa put a hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle. Aaron watched as Alexander’s countenance dropped. 

_Keep going._

“I don’t need some old, impotent, self-important commander telling me how to spend a free night,” Burr lifted a hand lazily, “I did my duty. I made my sacrifices.”

Hamilton’s jaw tightened; the flicker of something cruel behind his eyes. He addressed Louisa, matter-of-fact, “He has camp fever, you know. I mean of the venereal variety. I would exercise caution, mademoiselle.”

At this, Louisa made a noise and recoiled, looking betrayed. Aaron jumped, spilling the last of his wine. 

He stood, “Hamilton, you little shit-- that is a wretched lie and you know it--”

“--Have a pleasant evening, both of you,” Alexander cut them off, slipping his coat back on and heading back to the door, smiling to himself. 

Aaron stumbled, grabbing the rest of his things, following, “Hamilton-- _Hamilton--!”_

He reached the other soldier, grabbing him and spinning him around, coming face to face with the proud grin, “You owe me for that. I had already paid.”

“Well that seems like a personal problem, does it not?”

_“I could hit you for that.”_

Undaunted, Alexander slipped his arm around Aaron’s, “And now you have time to help me organize my artillery. Come. With two it will take half the time.”

 _Pull away. Go home._ Aaron yanked his arm in frustration, and found that the other soldier was stronger and more forceful than he looked. 

“You did not have to humiliate me like that, Little Hamilton,” Burr grumbled.

“We are coming upon the camp. I told you, it is ‘Captain Hamilton’ now. Follow me, please.”

 _Captain Hamilton, now,_ a voice inside Aaron’s head mocked him. His skin burned and he considered turning back to the tavern, slipping out of his coat and leaving it empty in Alexander’s hand. Running back to Louisa, to convince her to take him into her room--instead of this--whatever it was Alexander had planned. 

“I am too drunk to help you sort through this,” was all Aaron could manage. 

He looked around the small camp: the stone wall had been broken down in pieces. Alexander’s shovel lay unused and Aaron noticed, not without some smugness, that he hadn’t made much progress since that afternoon. A handful of tents surrounded them in the small clearing: Aaron guessed he must have about seventy men beneath him, each no doubt plotting a way to throw off and distract their petulant Captain. Four fires smoldered slowly; smoke trailing into the sky, obscuring the stars on the clear night. He watched Alexander’s mouth move-- _what is he saying?_ \-- disappearing into a slightly larger tent and beckoning him to follow. 

Aaron rubbed his face and crossed and uncrossed his arms. He lifted the flap. 

What greeted him made Aaron’s shoulders slump: a mess of guns and muskets and ammunition, scattered and disorganized, covered the ground and two small tables. A handful of candles cast the artillery with a soft gleam. His gaze darted from the pile to Hamilton’s face and expressive hands-- _is he still talking?-_ \- describing the work with glee. 

“...Trust me, Major Burr, this is how you will want to spend your evening. I think, even if General Washington were to be cross with you for taking a night off with no permission for leave, the blow will be softened if he knew you were helping a poor provincial army out of the goodness of your heart. Please help me lift this, if you would--”

Aaron’s mouth hung open, “--It most certainly is not out of the goodness of my heart, _Captain_ Hamilton. And the only soft blow I want right now is--”

“--Do not finish that sentence,” Hamilton popped back up from a crouched position behind one of the tables, lifting a finger, cradling a handful of muskets. He walked over, shoving them into Burr’s hands, “Take these.”

“What on earth--”

“--Mortars with short barrels. Good for high elevation.” Alexander pointed to an empty corner, “Please, put them there, if you don’t mind. We are going to organize the ammunition tonight, I think.”

“Captain Hamilton, I really don’t think--” Aaron faltered. 

Alexander paused, looking at him, the hint of a grin affixed to his mouth, “--What? Don’t you know anything about ammunition?”

Burr answered with a glare, dumping the guns unceremoniously in the corner, resulting in a loud, discordant clatter. 

Hamilton’s face split into an even broader smile, clasping his hands, “Well then we will accomplish multiple things tonight. Come here.”

It was no use, Aaron realized-- the more he made his annoyance known, the more Alexander seemed to enjoy it. _Exactly like a child,_ he thought. He crossed his arms and internally gave up the fight, managing a bored sigh, stepping closer to the other soldier and following Alexander’s lifted hand as it beckoned at the ammunition filled table. He turned his head, watching Alexander speak.

“This is what we have. You will notice the different sizes,” he touched several of the pieces, “All cast-iron. The ones on the ground there, the larger balls, are around forty pounds, so I would suggest leaving those for now. The fieldpieces may be easier for us--are you listening, Major?”

Burr felt the remainder of the alcohol slosh around his head, imagining the night of drunken pleasure he was being denied, “I am not, Captain.”

Hamilton turned pink, looking back at the table, speaking more rapidly, picking up a few bags of gunpowder and empty shells, “Then I will simplify my teaching for you. These shells will be sorted together. They are hollow now but they will very shortly be filled with this gunpowder, here. The wooden fuse-- that bit there-- will be trimmed at the moment of use and the fuse itself will be trimmed depending on the range, so ignore the difference in length for now. The fuse is then lit with a cotton rope coating in chemicals, over there--”

“--I know how to light a fuse, Captain Hamilton,” Aaron murmured.

At this, he watched Alexander fumble over one of the shells, and drop it. Aaron almost felt bad-- his overworked friend, wound up to the point of neurosis over piles of guns that would almost certainly be the death of half the men around them when he could tell, patently, that all he needed was a soft touch and a warm mouth. 

Burr bent down and picked up the pieces, handing it to Hamilton, who furrowed his brows, “No, no. This is useless now. Broken. Toss it in the discard pile, just there.”

“How late were you planning on staying up tonight, Captain Hamilton?”

“Can you please stop saying it?” Alexander spun, voice tinged with panic,“--Stop repeating it. ‘Captain Hamilton’. After every sentence, like you’re mocking me. I don’t like it.”

“You told me to address you as such, so you may build authority with your men.”

“Yes but when you say it, it sounds--” Alexander’s mouth went dry, repeating, “--Once in awhile is enough. Too much and you run the risk of mockery.”

“Do you like it when I call you Captain Hamilton? It has a pretty cadence, I think.” Burr said, off-handed. He wiped a bit of grime off his fingers from one of the rustier guns, dropping his gaze. He looked up to see Hamilton’s expression again-- the panic blooming across his cheeks. _That was it._

“You _do_ like it when I call you Captain Hamilton,” Aaron whispered, watching Alexander’s thoughts scatter like loose bullets. Aaron smiled at him, “Give a man a bit of authority and it corrupts him, does it not? Now you see why I cannot stand to be in the same room as our commander.”

“Just stop talking. I am not corrupt, I am tired. My title only sounds foul when you repeat it over and over again like a little baby.”

“Captain Hamilton.”

Alexander backed into one of the tent poles, “Stop it.”

Aaron was close enough now to see the pulse at his neck thrum, dropping his voice to a barely registered whisper, _“Captain Hamilton.”_

He was close enough to see his chest beat, to smell him: a mixture of sweat and gunpowder and grass and something Aaron couldn’t place, searching the loose necktie for a good place to touch it. Alexander’s hot cheeks and the blush spreading from his jaw to his ears, giving him away. The scar on his neck. 

He watched the struggle play out tantalizingly across Alexander’s features, watched him manage a few strained words, “Why are you so cruel?”

 _“You’re_ the one who pulled me away from my pleasures.”

“And so now you take it out on me,” Hamilton retorted, the pride settling in again. He straightened his back and lifted himself off the tent pole, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the soldier in front of him, voice hitting a spot in Burr’s abdomen, “I am sorry you are no longer seeing bloody action. I am sorry your mission failed and your general died. I am sorry the minutiae of camp life and the work of an aide displeases you. But I am _not_ sorry that I have prevented you from getting your cock sucked by a whore and embarrassing our Commander in Chief with your lazy disregard for the rules.”

Aaron could almost laugh. 

“It is conduct unbefitting of a soldier of your reputation,” Alexander went on. He picked up one of the muskets and loaded it absentmindedly, studying it from different angles in the low light, without looking back, “You will thank me in the stark light of day.”

****

Word began to travel more quickly throughout the summer with the benefit of good weather and well-trained, well-fed men. Alexander tried not to let the self-importance go to his head, but it was nearly impossible when every new benefit that was accorded to his company was a direct result of his own hand. 

_I am obliged to write to you to remove a difficulty which arises respecting the quantity of subsistence which is to be allowed my men. Enclosed you have the rate of rations which is the standard allowance of the whole Continental and even the Provincial army; but it seems the merchants of the city can not afford to supply us with more than their contract stipulates._

Alexander stifled a laugh when the news of staff re-arrangements came, bundled in with a pile of responses from Congress, that Burr had been transferred to General Putnam’s staff, several miles south, after-- the letter wasn’t clear. But Alexander had some idea. He shoved it into his pocket. 

The news of the declaration at city hall-- _throwing the gauntlet,_ Alexander mused, straining to hear it, sweating in the throng of people. Wondering, briefly, how it would affect the men’s morale. If it would imbue them with renewed energy or if it was so vague and demanding as to make their mission impossible. He listened to the declaration as best he could. _No soldier wrote this, that is for certain._

He kept his routine as best he could: five am drills and organization and digging in the creation of the fort. _It is cooler in the early hours,_ he reasoned, allowing them breaks for water and food once the sun was too hot to handle. He watched his men sign their books and collect their pay. _This is all because of you._

It was late August when Alexander was finally able to maneuver himself to the front of the line, swallowing his nerves in the face of the Commander in Chief, bowing, confidence filling him after the productive summer. He introduced himself to Washington, searching his face for any of the malice that Aaron spoke of-- and could see nothing but a spark of benign approval. 

“Eight nine-pound cannon, four three-pound cannon, and six mortars,” an aide marked the words on a piece of paper, standing next to Washington while Hamilton chewed his lip. 

He felt the older man’s gaze; a soft, almost pained voice, “I commend you for your mastery of this, Captain Hamilton.”

Alexander let the smile freeze on his face.

“There’s that look in your eye. I don’t like it,” Troup came in from the rain, slipping his boots off, several weeks later. “You’ve been too quiet. You’re not sick, are you? If you are, do say something so we can send you off to the medical tent before you infect us all--”

“--I am thinking.”

“Yes, I know. That is the problem.”

A third soldier, Marcus, dozed on a cot, elbow draped over his face, “If by ‘thinking’ you mean muttering under your breath non-stop.”

Troup pointed to Marcus, as if seconding him. 

“I am thinking about the vacancy in the company. Ever since Johnson left his duties have been piling up and we are understaffed, as it is, and I think it would be beneficial to fill the spot before we fall behind and embarrass ourselves.” 

Marcus lifted his head, “Go on, then. Read Troup what you’ve come up with.”

Alexander pursed his lips, clearing his throat, “ _Gentlemen-- It is necessary I should inform you that there is at present a vacancy in my company. As artillery officers are scarce, and as myself and my remaining officers sustain an extraordinary weight of duty because of this vacancy, I would like to make a new appointment. I would beg the liberty warmly to recommend to your attention Thomas Thompson--”_

“Thomas Thompson!” Troup cut him off, while Marcus laughed. 

“See? Out of his mind. They give promotions to _gentlemen_ , not your personal friends,” Marcus added wryly. 

Alexander turned back to his letter, warm, “He has common sense and hasn’t disgraced his rank. Which is more than can be said for some of the men--”

“--If this is about Burr, just say it,” Troup mumbled, almost inaudible. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Alexander ignored it, finishing his writing. 

The rest of the summer was like a landslide. One pebble turned into millions; one battle bled into the next. 

He let the dinner sit in the pit of his stomach, staring at Mulligan, who blanched, looking much older than Alexander had remembered. They regarded each other to the backdrop of nervous movement, formulating a plan to move Washington safely to Manhattan. His aide, Webb, snatched the slip of paper from them-- _too nervous,_ thought Alexander, _to be aide to the most important man in this war._

He wondered when the excitement turned into fear and if life was just this-- the constant churning from one extreme to another while he, Alexander, held on for dear life. 

****

Putnam greeted him with a hug, as though he’d known Aaron for decades. 

_What a difference._

His headquarters were well-stocked and full of friendly faces and Aaron found the old general to be generous and kind, almost to a fault. 

“Whatever you need, Warren House is at your disposal, Major,” Putnum smiled at him, voice echoing down the hallway as he disappeared into his small office. Aaron followed him and was greeted with a mess: the general was genial, easy with a joke-- but disorganized and, Aaron discovered after one night of drinking, foul mouthed. He liked him in an instant.

“Do you know the kind of men who frown on whores and prostitutes?” Putnam leaned forward, breath heavy with the smell of bourbon, “Men who can’t get it up.”

Aaron choked back a laugh. 

Putnam was easy with his instruction, speaking to Aaron as though they were colleagues instead of general and aide. Aaron immediately set to work cleaning up after him and correcting his books-- afternoons spent pouring over military histories and sciences; free reign to sort the information as Aaron saw fit. 

“I have to know just what happened with General Washington, so I do not make the same mistake,” the old man mumbled one day over his books while Aaron sat with his back to a south-facing window, warming in the dead summer heat. The question caught him off guard but there was no edge to it; no malice. It was refreshing. 

“Well, sir. There is not much to say, really,” Aaron let the memories dance in his mind. Formulated the best response and knew Putnam wouldn’t push it. 

“He refused to teach me, really. Everything I did seemed to annoy him, and I fear it drove a wedge between us. Why he let my skills languish when they could have been put to better use is beyond me.”

“And so you found yourself with too much free time, eh?” Putnam squinted at a blurry set of pages, plainspoken, “Idiocy, if you ask me. No enrichment.”

Aaron found himself opening up more and more to the general-- and his various friends.

“A dinner-- to welcome the autumnal season--that is what we need,” Putnam announced one afternoon after a ride around the area, looking for new recruits. _God, yes_. Aaron agreed internally. Putnam went on, “What do you think of that? I have a few friends in the area. It would do well, as you so often say, Major Burr, to lift the mens’ spirits. And I think we can spare some wine.”

Aaron collected his mail that afternoon with an extra spring in his step.

He shut his bedroom door with a soft latch, shuffling through it, replaying the past weeks and the way the old general never made a decision without consulting him, first. 

_It should have been this way since the beginning._

“What do you know of the Moncrieffes?” Putnam started early the next morning, before Aaron had a chance to finish his breakfast. 

“The name is not familiar to me.”

“Hm,” Putnam adjusted his glasses and shook out a paper in front of him, putting a pipe to his mouth in thought. A slight cloud, looking somewhat out of place on the older man’s jovial face, passed over his eyes, “He is an old friend of mine. This is a letter from him.”

“I see.”

“About the dinner business-- well. I suppose I need your advice, Burr,” Putnam went on, and Aaron instinctively straightened his back, waiting. 

“I will be frank. As an officer, he is my enemy. British through and through, and obligated to act as such, whatever our private sentiments for each other. But as a man, I owe him no enmity.”

“You are wondering whether it would be appropriate to invite him to stay,” Aaron finished, nodding. “I think it would be an act of magnanimity. A good example that though two men be on opposing sides of a conflict they can still be kind, and enjoy each other.”

“Well said,” Putnam grinned, “Precisely what I was thinking.”

He stood, full of purpose, and left Aaron without instruction for the day. Exactly how he liked it.

In the haze of the late afternoon hours, Aaron explored the town-- free of judgement. _He won’t mind,_ came the voice of his conscience, slipping in and out of his peripheral mind. One evening turned into two in the nearby boarding houses-- the girls’ faces blended indiscriminately. If Putnam knew, he didn’t let on, Aaron reasoned, spending a third night with a girl named Meg, who made him feel at once taut and loose and insane. A routine developed: he figured he needed at least three hours’ sleep. He’d leave the bedrooms in the dead of night and make it back to headquarters before anyone would wake and they were none-the-wiser-- and his head was clearer for it. 

_Putnam even remarked so. He said you were sharp._

He let the letters pile up again.

An acquaintance named Sedgwich found time to tease him: _Well, with this, I believe, I have troubled you long enough...You know, my dear Burr, I love you, or I should not submit such nonsense to your perusal. If Mr. Swift still lives, give him my best compliments. Pamela desires me to tell you she loves you._

Aaron tried to picture this Pamela in his head; couldn’t. There was a _Pam_ who stayed in the back bedroom of the boarding house--who liked the way he lifted her, with ease, taking her on top of her rickety dresser while trying hard not to make too much noise. 

Matt’s rushed and confident air translated into a particularly messy letter that looked as if it had been written in an hour, hastily scrawled, describing his own recruitment mission. Aaron laughed as he read it, knowing that if Matt were there in person they’d argue over who’d done more for hours.

_The army is beginning to recruit fast, from the effects of a little fresh meat, and some rum, when on fatigue. Ten days ago there were not eighty men in our regiment fit for duty. We now have upwards of two hundred and thirty; and, in a few days, they will be all as rugged as New-Jersey is firm._

More of the same. Aaron fell into a rhythm, trying to quiet the restlessness that crept upon him at inopportune moments. Drilling and studies with Putnam at dawn-- a break for lunch--correspondence and conversation until dusk. A blissfully free night. 

The Moncrieffes arrived the first week of September, their young daughter eyeing Aaron with an expression he knew too well. 

“Margarette,” the teenager held out her hand: forward, bold, impetuous, “Well? Aren’t you going to kiss it? I’m a lady.”

Aaron obeyed, “You are nothing of the sort.”

She blushed, misinterpreting his pedantry for flirtation-- and from that moment on he was never free of her. 

“Where do you go at nights? I see you leave after dinner. Do you go riding? I love to ride, but lately I have been having pains in my leg that prevent it-- I have taken up painting. Have you ever tried it? I do worry if I give up athletics too much I will grow weak and fat, like my mother,” Margarette talked and talked and Aaron did his best to be polite. She stood in the doorway of the small office, adjusting and readjusting her tight stays and catching her reflection in a mirror. 

_Nervous and inexperienced,_ Aaron eyed her, almost embarrassed at how obvious she was being. 

“I visit some friends in town,” Aaron responded, trying to look busy. He felt her presence behind him; her hands on his shoulders, looking over. He swiped the papers, shooting her a look.

“Private correspondence?”

“Yes.”

“I would love to show you some of my paintings, if you have a moment this evening.” Margarette went on, “If you do nothing but visit friends then you obviously have time.”

They _were_ pretty, Aaron thought, tilting his head to take them in: the rows upon rows of flowers on small canvases. The pair stood in the top-most room of the house where the noises of the general’s family and goings-on were muted.

“You have a knack for rose bushes,” he said. “May I ask why you choose to paint up here--away from everyone? Surely your father would like to see how talented his daughter is. Perhaps you can give us all a demonstration.”

Margarette’s expression flickered, then flattened, “I prefer to watch the ships.”

 _“Do_ you? And why is that?” 

“They are pretty-- the river, I mean.”

“Those are warships,” Aaron kept his voice as steady as he could; trying, as he spoke, to piece together her angle, “I suppose I don’t understand what a teenage girl would see in some militaristic comings and goings. Why don’t you paint in the garden, where you may see the flowers better?”

The young girl’s countenance darkened briefly, and she ended the conversation with a haughty flick of her wrist and a dismissal, “You obviously do not understand art. Good day, Major.”

Aaron found the girl’s unpredictability irritating, and said as such to Putnam. 

“She’s a bit high-strung. Nothing you can’t handle.”

“Don’t you find the fact that she locks herself away all day, painting the same sort of picture over and over again, a bit strange, sir?” Aaron asked, setting a book down and marking the spot with his finger. 

Putnam paced, frowning, “.. _.Is_ it the same thing, over and over? I hadn’t noticed.”

He hadn’t been asked, but Aaron set to work that evening with the next task he’d internally created for himself. He found Margarette exactly where he knew she’d be-- singing a light, off-key song from behind the closed door of the third-story bedroom; the observatory of the nearby river. He stopped in front of the door, putting his hand on the knob, organizing his words, and then opened it. 

She spun, caught off guard, and her expression turned from shock to something near friendliness, but not quite: “Oh, it’s just you.”

Aaron shut the door quietly, “It is just me.”

“Come to ask inane questions again? Before you do, what do you think of this--” Margarette, stepped back, showing him her latest piece.

“Margarette,” Aaron tried, putting a hand on her arm and watching her cheeks turn pink, “I want to get to know you better.”

The younger girl looked away, suddenly demure, scattered thoughts, “You do?”

“If I confess something to you-- would you return the favor? I think that could bring us closer.”

He watched the delicate phrasing work: the young girl’s vanity had been stroked and her thoughts play out plainly on her features, eyes darting from canvas to Aaron and back again. She opened and closed her mouth several times, before finally speaking, _“I would like us to be closer, too.”_

It was two days later before Aaron was able to get Putnam alone, away from the rest of his aides and family and voice his concerns.

“She is spying, sir. I am certain of it.”

Putnam leaned forward in his seat, eyes widened and dark, “Excuse me? How do you know?”

“The paintings. They are a sort of secret language, among women. She is watching the ships’ movements and putting her observations into the paintings and giving them to her father--” Aaron halted, unsure whether to go on. 

“--Her father…” Putnam repeated, betrayed. Aaron watched the old man close his book softly, frowning and leaving the room without a second word, lost in a thought.

There were moments during that busy summer that Aaron felt invincible, all-knowing, accomplished. 

The next week Margarette shot him a look of such cold loathing as she followed her father out the front door in disgrace Aaron’s temperament swung in the opposite direction and even the beautiful and willing women at the boarding house couldn’t lift his spirits. This was the worst of it, he realized, when even his escape began to sour.

****

The late summer sun had barely begun to redden the horizon when Alexander felt himself being shaken awake. The firm hand clasped his shoulder before he knew what was happening, and in his half-asleep fog, he laughed. 

“Leave me _alone_ …” 

“Captain Hamilton, get up.”

The sound of the familiar voice ricocheted around Alexander’s groggy brain mingling pleasantly with a dream. He turned in his sleep, smiling, “...Say it again.”

 _“For fuck’s sake,”_ Aaron stood above him, kicked the leg of his cot, shaking it. “Captain Hamilton, get up now!”

Alexander’s eyes sprung open and reality slammed into him. 

“What on earth is going on?” Hamilton asked, sitting up, feeling around him and instinctively grabbing his coat. The sudden jolt in movement made his head hurt, and he rubbed his temples, adjusting his eyesight to the still-dim morning.

Burr did not answer him immediately, but made his way around the small tent shaking each man awake. Three other men were with him. Hamilton squinted, his heart racing, trying to place the date, stupidly-- _perhaps you have forgotten a drill?-_ -but he could not. Outside, indistinct voices shouted in the wet pre-dawn. 

“Answer me, Major!” Alexander tried again, standing. Troup was suddenly by his side, awaiting orders. The rest of the men had poured out of the tent, grabbing their weapons and belongings.

“Is it true?” Troup stepped forward, worry etched on his face. He watched Aaron move silently around the tent, checking under beds and behind piles of papers, making sure all personal items had been collected. Hamilton stood dumbly, frustrated. 

He grabbed Burr by the arm, “As captain of this artillery I demand to know what is going on!”

“British troops have sectioned off the island two miles north. Kip’s Bay,” Aaron tore himself from Alexander’s grip, speaking in measured, clear beats, as though talking to a child, “Your company is in danger. General Putnam is evacuating you. In the name of Washington.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Before Burr could respond, an explosion rumbled in the distance. Both men jumped, startled, as a stream of militia fled past them in waves. Several voices shouted indistinctly outside, and Aaron locked eyes with Alexander, “Do you need me to draw you up a map?”

“Excuse me, sirs--” a younger soldier appeared at the entrance to the tent, nervous. He held out a slip of paper, “An order from General Knox, Captain.”

Hamilton took it before Burr could, scanning the rapidly scrawled letter, “This says we are to stay put and defend the fort.”

Aaron swiped it from him, “I am acting on Washington’s orders. Not Knox's.”

Alexander opened his mouth to argue and stopped short, noticing his torn jacket and his face --creased with dirt, bruise blooming under his right eye.There was no time to address his insolence, or the indignation suddenly filling his chest. He watched Aaron mount his horse, looking around and raising his voice.

“Who is in command, here?” he shouted, while the disorganized men turned to look at him.

At this, Knox appeared, red-faced, “I am. What on earth is going on? Major Burr--”

“--Why did you not retreat with your men?” Aaron asked the superior officer, boldly, and Alexander felt his mouth drop open. 

Knox blanched, walking up to the horse and grabbing the reigns, “Excuse me? The enemy is just there, across the river. It is impossible to retreat. I have strict orders to stay here and defend the fort.”

The men around them murmured amongst themselves nervously. Alexander stepped between Knox and Aaron and hissing, “We should listen to the general, Major Burr. 

“Where are we going?” Troup asked exiting a nearby tent, hurriedly loading a pistol. “If the British have cut us off two miles north, there is no other way.”

Burr spoke directly to Knox, as though Hamilton wasn’t there, and he heard the fury rise in his voice. 

“That is ridiculous,” Aaron replied. He lifted a finger and pointed to the fort, steadying himself on the stomping horse, “You have no provisions here. You have no water. You are not bomb-proofed. You have less than four hours before the British descend on you and crush you to a pulp. You need to leave now--”

Knox matched his anger, _“--That is madness, Major.”_

Alexander’s stare darted from man to man. 

Burr adjusted his coat, turning the horse and addressing the soldiers, voice raised even louder to compensate for the rapidfire shots that rang out at random intervals, “There is a path just beyond the trees to the west of us. If you remain here, you will be gutted and hanged like dogs, do you understand? That is why we are evacuating now. Putnam calculates we have thirty minutes. If we can steal away before they descend on us—"

“ _Two miles in thirty minutes_? Are we flying like geese?” Knox snapped, quickly loading his own weapon and strapping it to him. 

Burr pointed at him, harshly, “You can stay here and be bayoneted into oblivion if you’d like.”

Knox deliberated internally; Hamilton watched the terrible decision play out on his features for a moment before the large-framed general nodded in Burr’s direction-- the approval. 

Alexander clenched his jaw, looking up at Aaron, “So that’s it then? We are to just trust you?”

Around him, muttering crowds of soldiers clutched their weapons nervously. Alexander straightened his coat and tried to call to attention some of the troops.

“There’s no time for that, just _come,_ for God’s sake.”

Hamilton felt Burr grab his arm and pull him before he could argue further, pushing him in the opposite direction of the fort. In the distance he could see Putnam riding toward them, who looked even more imposing atop his horse. 

“Is this him?” Putnam said.

“This is Captain Hamilton, yes,” Aaron responded, somewhat out of breath. 

Putnam addressed Alexander next, “Are these your men?”

“They are, sir.” Hamilton straightened his back, only just realizing he had been clenching his teeth so tightly they began to ache. 

“Why in God’s name do you have them camped here? When you know two miles ahead is a perfect spot for entrapment?” The general asked, starting down at him furiously. Hamilton opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off, “Who’s blasted idea was it?”

“General Knox’s, sir,” Burr interjected from his horse. Hamilton glanced up to his left, detected a tiny eye-roll at some inside joke, and felt anger surge. Once again, he prepared to respond, only to be ignored.

“Christ preserve us. Of course it was,” Putnam replied, yanking the reigns and turning his horse around. He shouted orders to the nervous soldiers, who immediately stopped their chatter amongst themselves and turned their attention to the commanding officer. He pointed in the direction they were to walk. In the distance, the sky turned red and a cannon thundered. 

“You had better follow suit, Captain,” Aaron looked down at Alexander, then back at the crowd. “I believe Troup is just there—three rows up.”

“I can—I don’t need to know where Troup is!” Hamilton finally managed. Burr looked at him blankly. He continued, “How can I be sure these were Washington’s orders? To leave the camp. Because I cannot believe he would inform Putnam and not _me._ ”

“Washington got you into this mess,” Aaron responded, voice raised over the cannon fire, and Alexander saw something violent flashing within them.

“No he did not!”

“So it was _your_ bright idea to build a fort on an easily blockaded peninsula?” Aaron’s face was inscrutable; Alexander turned red again and shoved past him, ignoring the question. 

Burr hopped down from his horse amongst the chaos, running after him, catching up to him and grabbing his arm again, “I asked you a question!”

“Let go of me or I swear on my _life_ \--”

“--Your life will be snuffed out like a tapering candle, Little Hamilton, so you had better shut your mouth and save your empty posturing for someone who _doesn’t_ understand what a real war looks like, someone who _doesn’t_ just write useless letters all day.” Burr’s chest heaved, and several soldiers turned their gaze to see what the commotion was.

Another cannon thundered, this time closer, and Hamilton stopped in his tracks, turning, “I am sorry-- _what_?”

Voices were becoming more distinct as the British army inched closer. Aaron felt something inside of him click, a proud voice shouting.

“I am saying that you and your entire artillery would be slaughtered if it had not been for Putnam!” 

In a split second, Hamilton was on him, shoving him back. Burr stumbled, then caught his balance. He swung his fist and hit Alexander in the jaw, swearing as he felt the skin on his knuckles break. Hamilton shouted something indistinct, grabbed his mouth, and reached out his free hand to wrap his fingers around the necktie at Burr’s throat.

“You arrogant-- you think I wouldn’t have protected my own-- you think I’m _incapable_?” Alexander’s words were incoherent, his mouth turning a frightful crimson as blood poured from a cut lip. Aaron choked, and struggled for breath. In another moment, four other soldiers descended on the two men and pulled them apart, all six voices culminating in a chorus of shouting.

“Calm down, men!”

“What would the generals think?”

“Major Burr, your horse--”

Hamilton shook himself free from a much taller soldier who held him back, and wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.

Burr took several gulps of air before settling down, calmly removing himself from a different soldier’s grasp, “I am fine. _Fine._ Stop staring at me and march on!”

He shoved Hamilton from his path and made his way back to his horse while the last of the company grabbed what they could to find the backwoods path he’d pointed out. He hoisted himself up, catching the breath that had been stifled in his throat by Hamilton’s fingers.

“Are you coming?” Aaron yelled down at Alexander, who held a hand to his lip, glaring daggers. 

Alexander took one last look around the ransacked fort--the scattered remnants of his entire summer--and looked back up to see Burr holding out a hand, expectantly. Another explosion, closer, rattled them and several nearby tents collapsed. Hamilton grabbed his hand and hoisted himself up onto the horse.

“Hold tightly.”

_“I know what to do.”_

Alexander swallowed the burning resentment and slipped his arms around Aaron’s midsection while the latter man kicked his horse into a swift, uncomfortable gallop. The trees blurred to their left and right and Aaron led them down the hidden path, away from danger. 

****

It was dark when Alexander saw the lights of Washington’s headquarters. 

_All the better, then,_ he thought, still burning from the embarrassing fight; avoiding gazes from his men, who’d never seen him lose control like that. The realizations hit him with every step of his boot: he’d left it all behind. Books, letters, ammunition, clothes, canteen, quill and paper-- Burr’s forceful takeover of his fort.

“Sir, the men want to know if there will be time for a bit of respite--”

Hamilton snapped out of his thoughts, turning on him, “--What? No. Of course not. Look around you. There are defenses to be built, unless you want to be attacked again.”

The younger man recoiled, embarrassed, and slinked away. 

Alexander dropped the single bag he was able to salvage before evacuation onto the ground, dropping to a nearby stone and putting his head in his hands. 

He lost track of the minutes, sitting there, catching his breath and replaying the morning over and over again until it felt like it wasn’t _real_ . He nursed the bruise at his jaw, opening and closing his mouth while the pain flared. And something different: the feel of Burr’s body in front of his on the horse, solid and unyielding-- _and brave-- and everything you should have been to your men._

“Sir--” a gangly aide ran up to him. Alexander stood, shutting down the train of thought. 

“Sir, General Washington wants to speak with you, in the marquee tent--just up there,” the aide pointed in the direction of the general’s headquarters. 

“He...what? In regards to what?” Alexander’s skin flushed cold, imagining the dressing he would get for fighting. _Perhaps Burr will be there, too, humiliated?_

The aide shrugged and bowed his leave, and Alexander had no choice but to head toward the commander. He reached the tent and paused, wondering if he needed to make an introduction, knock, announce his presence. His question was answered by a different aide, carrying a bundle of letters, that pushed rudely past him. 

“There you are, Hamilton,” the commander spoke, without looking up. 

Alexander slid inside, bracing himself, “You wanted to speak to me, sir?”

He looked up, regarding him, “I wanted to take a moment to make sure you and your men have everything you need to rebuild the defenses tonight. I am sorry you will not have time to rest, but you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” Alexander nodded. 

The older man eyed his cut jaw, mouth twitching, “Do you need a nurse?”

“No, sir.”

Several more younger aides came in--one whispering something into Washington’s ear before giving a slight bow and exiting the tent as if Alexander wasn’t there. He gripped his hands behind his back, so tight he felt his fingers go numb. 

“A congratulations is in order, Captain Hamilton. You were right to listen to Major Burr today. Make me a list of the supplies you have lost and I will do my best to replenish your men.”

Alexander nodded mutely. Then, regaining his words, “I will. Thank you, sir.” Like the nameless assistants around him, he sensed the conversation was over, and turned on his heel while Washington busied himself with something else.

****

The first frost hit and Aaron woke to a frozen nose and cheeks. He rubbed his face, wincing at the bruise beneath his eye, blinking slowly and coming-to. He lifted himself up and made his way to Putnam’s tent for the day’s orders. 

Upon entering, he was greeted with the older man’s genial smile, “Well! He yet lives. How, no one can tell.”

Aaron returned the smile, “Sir.”

Putnam lifted some of the papers in front of him, “Once again, your reputation as a soldier precedes you. The reports are full of praise, listen to this--” he shifted through some of the letters, “--from a man named Ripley: _‘As to my own opinion of the management of the troops on leaving New York, Burr's merits there as a young officer ought to claim much attention, and whose official duties as an aid-de-camp on that memorable day justly claimed the thanks of the army and his country.’_

Aaron felt his face warm, looking away. 

Putnam went on, “Now listen to this! _‘The coolness, deliberation, and valor displayed by Major Burr in effecting a safe retreat, without material loss, and his meritorious services to the army on that day, rendered him an object of peculiar respect from the troops, and the particular notice of the officers.’_ High praise, my dear boy.”

Burr cleared his throat, “Is there...I heard Captain Hamilton’s company retreated to Harlem, with Washington.”

“That they did.”

“Is there any news from the Commander in Chief’s headquarters? His orders were read out yesterday morning-- did he.. say anything?” Aaron shifted. “...About me?”

Putnam frowned, sifting through the papers again, “Ah...let me see. No. I do not think so, Major.”

Aaron nodded briefly, adjusting his necktie.

“I see.”

Putnam stood and patted him on the shoulder, absentmindedly, before leaving the tent.

****

_Planning. Movement. Chaos._

A fire had been set in the city-- and once again Hamilton watched his home crumble.

He dragged his men to White Plains, where the British attacked them again. He shut his fear out and repelled them-- the back and forth tug of violence--charging and retreating in turns. 

He used to wake up anxious. Breathless. Worried. He didn’t notice when that stopped, but it had, and Alexander greeted each day ready for the next fight, letting each moment happen as it would. _There was no time for it,_ he reasoned. _Fear made men pause. A paused man was a still man. A still man was a dead one._

He blew on his fingers, warming them by a fire on a rare still night. He picked up his paybook, filled with folded letters-- _the ones you were able to save, that is_ \--one, embarrassingly, addressed to Andrew Hamilton. He sighed and turned the page. _Shoes, breeches, coats, guns, food--_ another rhythm keeping time in his head. They’d all been lost in the recent scuffles and the constant shuffling of the troops. Alexander took a cold finger and traced the lines across the neatly drawn columns. 

The days grew darker and Alexander brought his men further up the Hudson, praying the first ice would hold off until they could reach Peekskill. From there, further inland, he was told, he would meet Washington.

_Who would...what? Tell you it’s going to be okay? Swoop in like a savior and make everything right?_

He was given his answer when he was met with five thousand broken and dispirited souls who joined him, reluctantly. Alexander realized he’d lost the ability to keep a steady gaze, to look men in the eyes. 

Elizabethtown, next-- where the first snow of the season took him by surprise. Wet wood that wouldn’t light. The last of the vegetables from the summer. Frostbite and amputations; mass graves behind Barber’s Academy. If he stopped to think about it too much, the chill would settle in and his shoulders would feel too heavy to move. He spent one afternoon on patrol, followed by a handful of crows and vultures that smelled the death on them. 

He planted his company near Washington’s headquarters. It was the only decision that made sense- _-irrationality, a child crying for its parent, that’s what you are--_

“Shut _up,”_ Alexander talked aloud to himself, to the surprise of some of the men around him. He turned red, focusing back on repairing the broken musket in his lap, “As you were.” 

His spirits were briefly buoyed at the sight of Mulligan, who joined him late in the month. Alexander had stopped keeping track of the days. 

“Alexander,” Mulligan swept him into a hug, and Alexander felt a lump of emotion swell in his throat. 

He pulled back, “You’re safe. I had given up hope. I heard Howe was hanging prisoners without mercy--”

Mulligan’s proud laugh that Alexander didn’t even realize he’d missed, “--Not a _gentleman_ , they wouldn’t.”

Alexander laughed and hugged him again. 

His joy was short-lived and he woke on the last day of the month to the sound of screams and the onslaught of the British troops. 

_Planning. Movement. Chaos._

_How much longer can you keep the barriers up, Little Hamilton?_

He ordered his men to the west bank of the nearby river and deployed the same field pieces he’d cleaned and organized and fretted over with Burr-- _has it only been six months?-_ -The sound of cracking bone yanked him from his reverie and he jumped, tripping and twisting his own ankle. 

For hours the pain throbbed, distracted only by the steady firing. News, like a virus, spread throughout the company that Washington had escaped, unscathed. Hamilton fell back against a wall, ears ringing. He covered his eyes, pressing into them so deeply he imagined pushing them back into his skull. 

_Well, as long as the Commander is safe, who cares what happens to his lesser soldiers?_

“That’s not true. No,” Hamilton spoke aloud again, lower, this time, making sure the others couldn’t hear. He dodged the stares of rookie and veteran officers alike, making his way to the remainder of his artillery.

_Who needs an old, impotent fool to tell you what to do?_

He reached out and touched one of the canons, taking a fingernail and scratching at a bit of dried blood.

_Real war. This is real war. This isn’t writing correspondence in a little tent._

Alexander took the weight off his ankle and leaned against the cannon, digging into the dried blood harder and harder, feeling his sanity come loose. 

“No, this is real war.” He pet it, spat on it, took his sleeve and buffed it. 

He felt an arm reach out to grab him and it were as though he’d just woken up, or breached an ice-cold pond, coming up for air. 

“Captain, who are you talking to?”

“No one, I-- the canons--”

“We are to head towards Princeton-- move--!” The veteran officer, who Alexander could not place, shoved him, and he grimaced in pain as the injury from his ankle flared up his leg. 

New Jersey was practically lost by the end of the year.

_And who’s fault is that?_

Alexander found himself in a tiny ore boat as it cut through the brown frozen water of the Delaware. He stopped asking questions-- went days without speaking, the only communication the firing of his artillery, acting on impulse and instinct like a prey animal. 

_Victory or death._

Christmas was dull and forgotten. Alexander stared into the campfire, wrapped in a blanket, trying to remember if he’d ever had a memorable holiday. His log rocked; movement to his left. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bright orange sparks, but his mind was blank. 

“Festive,” James Wilkinson muttered sarcastically as he adjusted himself, uncomfortable, causing the log to rock, “Think they’ll have anything extra for us, to commemorate our Lord and Savior’s birth?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Hamilton muttered, shooting him a brief look. 

It had been several days of this-- camped out along the banks of the slushy, frozen river. Their fingers and limbs were too cold to be productive; the sun set at four in the afternoon. Alexander realized that it was impossible to keep the men working into the darkness and so they found themselves with more free time and, he lamented, more time for mischief.

Wilkinson nudged him, “I heard some of the generals got shoes. Wouldn’t that be nice. Saw tracks from some of the men back there,” he went on, oblivious to the fact that Alexander was in no mood for stories, “I thought it was from some carrion feast. A dead deer or something of the like. Would you like to know what it was, actually?”

He felt Wilkinson’s stare and ignored it; knew the glib, somewhat frivolous soldier would talk on, anyway, and it wouldn’t matter if Hamilton dropped dead right there. 

“Blood, I’m sure of it,” Wilkinson continued, almost entertained. 

“Try not to look like you’re describing a new coat you’re going to buy, Wilkinson,” a different soldier, Monroe, cut in. He took his shoe off and shook it out, frowning, “The least you could do is not make it sound like some terrible novel.”

“It’s blood from the feet, I’m sure of it,” Wilkinson argued.

“Now how do you know that?” Monroe responded with a slight southern drawl, slowly, sounding as if he were trying to sort his thoughts as he spoke them. 

“Well what the fuck else would it be?”

Monroe raised his hands, “No need to be aggressive. I would just caution you against starting romantic rumors…”

Hamilton brought his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them, letting his eyes burn while the smoke from the flames glazed them.

The next night, it was the same-- the same fire, the same frozen limbs and muscles, the same soldiers and the same inane chatter. 

“Twelve miles in the snow with these boots? Is Greene out of his mind? We might as well be barefoot. And no coats. Just these wretched blankets,” Wilkinson’s voice cut through Alexander’s mind again. 

“If the Hessians are as disorganized as Washington’s spies seem to think, it shouldn’t be too much of a challenge,” Monroe leaned in and lowered his voice. “Besides-- if Washington sees a victory, it could bode well for us. If you know what I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Hamilton blinked, coming out of his torpor. 

“I mean, he is looking for more aides,” Monroe regarded him. “If you want a spot, away from the madness-- now would be the time to prove yourself.”

“And what makes you think I am battle-weary?” Hamilton responded while Wilkinson laughed unpleasantly. 

Monroe went on, undaunted, “Because we all are. The lifespan for an artillery captain is one year.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hamilton waved his hand, tugging his blanket tighter. 

“I’ll take a spot on his bloody staff. I’ll wipe his ass if it means I can get a decent set of breeches,” Wilkinson mumbled. “I heard he’s dumb as rocks and needs aides to help him write all his letters.”

“Shut up,” Hamilton spat, reaching the end of his patience.

“Jesus. _Sorry_. What’s gotten into you?” Wilkinson made a face. 

“You should be ashamed. He is the Commander in Chief. Show some respect, Wilkinson,” Alexander muttered. “What do you think would happen if the others were to hear you denigrating him so? It would ruin morale.”

Monroe hovered, warming his hands, “Be nice, Jamie.”

“I don’t need you coddling me, either, Monroe. I’m tired. I have not slept in two days.” Hamilton rubbed his eyes, feeling their stares, “Just drop it, would you?”

The two other soldiers exchanged knowing glances and continued with their conversations, albeit at a lower volume.

The next night, Alexander felt almost guilty. He disappeared from the camp, unnoticed, and killed a rabbit; cooked it for them as a gesture of apology without having to say the words. 

Wilkinson began eating without thanking him, speaking with his mouth full.

“You know…some of the men here… they’re a lot like you. Tense. Wound-up. I knew one man, Sullivan-- so overworked he dropped to the ground with exhaustion and wouldn’t come-to for three days. You don’t want that to happen to you.”

“I already told you, Wilkinson, I am fine.” Hamilton sighed. 

Monroe sat next to him, chewing thoughtfully, “What he means is, once we retake Princeton...and reports are confident that we surely will… there will be time to celebrate. Perhaps you would be less irritable if you were to spend your nights in _other_ ways, instead of tossing and turning and fretting.”

Hamilton flattened his expression, looking at each of them, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Hey-- do not discount the benefits of a good whorehouse,” Wilkinson added, bluntly. 

“Come on, now.” Monroe said. 

“I forgot. Southern gentility,” Wilkinson responded, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. He took another bite of the rabbit and swallowed, “It’s really not fair. Haven’t we worked hard enough to warrant a bit of celebrating? The other generals allow for it. Putnam makes it a point to acquaint himself and his staff with women in the area. They sew shirts and bring food. I’m just saying.”

“I’m well aware of what Putnam allows his staff to get away with,” Hamilton exhaled, frustrated, standing, “Good night, gentlemen.”

  
  


****

  
  


New Jersey no longer felt like home. Aaron realized this, seemingly out of the blue, one bright and frozen afternoon as he surveyed the nearby woods for a place to set up camp. Princeton was one half mile behind him. Those were the parameters, Putnam explained. _You know the area better than the rest of us, Major Burr, find us a clearing nearby._

 _I used to know the area,_ he wanted to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded, _good soldier,_ and was off. 

Around him, somewhat close by, were other camps-- other soldiers like himself, perhaps from New Jersey-- who didn’t recognize a place that had produced so many fond memories. 

“Sir-- Major--” came a voice behind him. 

Aaron turned to see a soldier he didn’t recognize, of his same age, holding out a packet of letters. 

He spoke, “You forgot these. The mail came today.”

Aaron took them and nodded, _thank you,_ and the soldier was off. He shifted them in his hands-- one from Matt, and a thicker, longer one from his aunt. He knew it was coming: his family's constant fretting that he’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere, dashing their hopes for posterity. Aaron hated it: the way he could never quite delude himself into believing they actually cared for him as a person and not just as a symbol and extension of _them_. 

It was the usual.

 _How could you have abandoned New York-- letting it fall to the British?_ As if it were his idea entirely. 

Aaron’s walking stick dug into the snow as he maneuvered himself along, crafting the response in his head. Could almost see Reeve’s hidden grin at how lawyerly he’d sound. 

_The loss of New York to us is of less importance--and, indeed, some happy consequences resulting from these maneuvers appear to me worthy of notice._

_One; we have opposed them with less than half their number._

_Two; our force is now more united, theirs more divided._

He let the arguments solidify in his mind, matching each sentence to a footstep and a stab of his stick into the ground. 

_Three; our present situation renders their navy of less service to them, and less formidable to us._

He folded her letter and put it in his bag along with Matt’s, coming upon a decently sized clearing with a small brook running through it. The excuses came too quickly. 

_The effect that success has upon our leading men: It arouses them from the lethargy which began to prevail; that the present is the important moment, and that every nerve must now be exerted._

It was after sunset when Aaron made his way back to Putnam, who greeted him warmly, thanking him for finding the flowing freshwater. 

_It should be remembered we are engaged in a civil war, and effecting the most important revolution that ever took place._

The same mail-carrying soldier greeted him the next day; rosy-cheeked.

“Major Burr. More letters for you, sir,” he smiled, “You must have many friends.”

Aaron regarded him, “Or nosy acquaintances who want to hear lurid stories about Hessian violence and slaughter.”

The soldier laughed, and left, and the sound of it left a pleasing warmth in Aaron’s chest.

_How little of the horrors of either have we known!_

The third day, Aaron felt the mail-carrier’s hand on his arm, forward and affectionate: “Just one letter, today, Major! Perhaps your nosy acquaintances grew tired of the stories.”

He gave Aaron an easy smile, and Aaron returned it, gripping his hand, “We shall see.”

It was dark, frigidly cold, and Aaron blessed whatever god allowed him to have a tent to himself. He listened to the running brook bubbling pleasantly outside, mingling with the low din of the men around him, who all had letters like he did, coming up with ways to assuage their loved ones that all was not lost and the sun would rise again. 

_Fire or the sword have scarce left a trace among us._

“Sir, apologies for being so late with the mail today,” the soldier peeked in through a crack in the tent opening.

Aaron looked up, blinked, “It is no trouble, my friend. Please, join me.”

The mail-carrier let himself in and closed the tent flap tight, adjusting his bag, “The wind is picking up, Major. I suspect there is a storm on the horizon but I dare not say it to the other men for fear of lowering their spirits.”

“But you say it to me?”

The mail-carrier’s expression widened, “Oh, sir, I didn’t mean to dampen the--you seem to be the only man here who can manage a smile.”

Aaron stood, touching his shoulder, “Just a joke. I am fine. Sit with me. What is your name?”

“Carter.” He set his bag down and sat at the small table in the corner. 

“Your first name.” Aaron pressed him, watching the blush creep up his neck and onto his cheeks. 

“Christopher, sir.”

“Please, call me Aaron,” he replied, taking the single letter from Christopher, “I sometimes think titles drive a wedge between the men. I fear that is why I am alone tonight. The others see me with the general and assume I am his faithful lackey, ready to report on the slightest misdeed. You are simply Christopher, and I am simply Aaron.”

Aaron looked down at the address on the paper-- _Dr. Joseph Bellamy, Litchfield, Connecticut._

“Your tent is much cleaner than mine,” Christopher went on in a soft, longing voice, looking around, “The two men I share it with are slovenly. And it stinks to high-heavens...”

His voice became muddled and Aaron was suddenly confused. Cold. _Why would Dr. Bellamy be writing? That doesn’t make sense. Perhaps Jon has lost my address. Yes, that is it._

He let Christopher fill the tent with his observations, slipping his finger beneath the wax to open it. Like so many times before, Aaron’s gaze jumped from word to word as if trying to synthesize the entire thing at once. The phrases jumping out at him messily: _Miserable winter. Fever. At rest. God bless you, Aaron. Your love and friendship carried him through his last tormented hours._

“....Aaron…? Major-- you’re gone pale-- is everything alright?”

Aaron folded the letter. Swallowed. 

_We may be truly called a favored people._

“I am fine, Christopher. Thank you for bringing my mail.”

“You had me terribly worried,” Christopher exhaled, and Aaron forced himself to focus on the other soldier’s wide smile and soft mouth, “If our brave Major looks hopeless, then all is surely lost...”

Aaron tapped Dr. Bellamy’s letter against the table, unable to process it. Christopher talked on happily. It was as if his mind refused to acknowledge the terrible reality. _Jon was not dead. That was unacceptable. No. There was a mistake. This letter was meant for someone else._ His thoughts fought against it, battling with Christopher’s voice that cut in and out, intermittently. _You cannot focus on this right now._

Before he could stop himself Aaron reached out and grabbed the other soldier’s hand, and Christopher looked down at it in surprise, stopping mid-sentence. He brought the hand to his mouth, kissing it. 

“Cherish your friends, Christopher.”

The soldier’s face turned even redder as he nodded in assent, and like so many times before Aaron watched the pupils dilate, the heart race, the skin flush. He brought his hands to the soldiers’ pink cheeks, guiding him closer. Christopher gave in with a soft moan against Aaron’s mouth. 

He let the physical replace the mental; a warm body against his in the stifling tent. A brief explosion of pleasure and an empty crater left in its wake. 

****

  
  


“Jesus Christ, Wilkinson. What _is_ this place?” Alexander muttered, removing his cloak and shaking the water from it while the rain came down in sheets outside. The streets of Princeton had been quiet-- weather making it difficult for any sort of productivity-- and Alexander ran out of excuses to keep from joining his fellow soldiers for an evening off. 

Wilkinson waved at a toothless barkeep, responding out of the corner of his mouth, “This is where all the soldiers in the area go.”

“Looks like it’s been here for five-hundred years. Are you sure about this?” Monroe came up behind them, using his height to look for a table. 

Alexander followed them to the back of the tavern, stepping over a pile of rags that covered what he hoped wasn’t human blood, “Our men deserve better than this.”

“Well I’m sorry it’s not Versailles but our choices are a bit limited,” Wilkinson responded, red-faced. 

Alexander regretted it already: the familiar sight of the women eyeing them, angling for company and payment. The pathetic men who spent their entire weeks’ earnings here, instead of on their families. The young soldiers that were so cold and alone and desperate for touch. 

“Told you we’d be able to celebrate,” Monroe began. The three huddled over a small circular table, a single melting candle in the center of it. “You should hear the reports about all the new volunteers, too. We’re inundated now.”

Wilkinson wobbled back and forth in his chair, looking down to see what was causing it. He snapped a button off his vest and slid it under one of the legs, coming back up, “Should be interesting to see how Washington deals with it.”

“He’ll hire new staff. He has to, ” Hamilton answered before thinking. 

“You seem confident,” Monroe replied, eyeing him. 

Alexander shrugged, “Well it makes sense. More men mean more pay. More pay means bigger, more complicated paybooks. More orders, more letters-- we are already ill-equipped to coordinate logistics as it is. His time is no doubt taken up by the constant training of new recruits. Who knows what his letters look like. It’s common sense.”

“It’s common sense,” Wilkinson repeated, mockingly, dipping his finger into the tiny pool of melted wax beneath the burning wick. 

Hamilton shot him a look, “Well it is. And you asked.”

“You seem to know the plan,” Monroe cut in. “Going to apply for a position?”

“I don’t know.”

Monroe accepted a glass of ale, slurping it unpleasantly, “You’re gonna have to get him alone, first. A dinner. Something.”

“You’ve thought about it?” Hamilton took a drink. 

“A bit. It would give a unique view of the situation. Overheard some of his aides saying he feels like the weight of the entire war rests on his shoulders. If that’s truly the case I figure it’s best to be in the center of it,” Monroe reasoned. 

Hamilton nodded to himself. Wilkinson winked at a woman who stared at them, waving her over, and Monroe went on. 

“He’s going to need battle-tested officers. Officers to deal with Congress, contractors , spies, doctors, militias-- anything and everything. If he’s the head, the aides are his arms. I think I could do it,” Monroe concluded, almost to himself. 

“Comes with a promotion,” Wilkinson said, half-listening, “Lieutenant colonel.”

“Well that makes sense,” Hamilton replied. “No one’s going to want to do it if it didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Monroe countered. He took another sip of his drink; Alexander watched the alcohol go to his head all at once, “In any case he’s hosting a dinner at the end of the month at his headquarters. I’m going to try and make an appearance, if I can. Impress him--”

“--Good luck,” Wilkinson interjected sarcastically, accepting the woman he’d winked at onto his lap. He grinned at her, not hiding the fact that he was staring directly at her chest. 

“Are you three soldiers in the area?” The woman asked. 

“We are,” Wilkinson answered, neatly, “We were sent out to find some talented women who could help us replenish our energies.”

Monroe eyed her and laughed into his drink, “You’re a dog, Wilkinson.”

“What is your name?” Alexander interrupted. 

She regarded him, eyebrows raised, “Pam.”

“Pam. What a pretty name that is,” Wilkinson cut in. 

“What’s his name? The tall one with the accent.” She inclined her head toward Monroe. She lifted herself from Wilkinson’s lap and touched Monroe’s shoulder, interested. 

“James,” he mumbled, putting his glass down. He looked at the other two soldiers across from him and shrugged, standing up to follow her. 

Wilkinson threw his hand up, letting it hit the table with a slap, “Unbelievable. I should have known this would happen. They don’t want me because of my fat baby-face and your hair is a strange color--no offense…”

Hamilton barely registered the other man’s complaints, staring into the flickering flame before him. _A dinner at the end of the month. Washington’s headquarters._

“Fantastic. Here come more of us,” Wilkinson muttered into his ale as more soldiers entered the tavern and the womens’ faces brightened. Wilkinson looked around again, “They’re probably relieved we’re not Hessians.”

 _“Jamie,”_ Alexander hissed, snapping out of his thoughts. 

“What? I’m just speaking the truth,” Wilkinson shrugged. He exhaled loudly, lifting himself out of his chair, “I’m going to try my luck with someone else. Have fun...sitting here, I guess.”

The tavern filled quickly as the night wore on and it weighed on Alexander-- how it would be his only night off for the foreseeable future and how he felt as though he weren’t enjoying it enough--and that it made him even more introspective. 

He slipped again into the dark thoughts. _Planning. Movement. Chaos._

“Captain Hamilton.”

A new voice, not his own, hit his ears, standing out amongst the conversations. Alexander looked up, the weight deepening, “Major Burr.”

“I figured your men had to be nearby. My men and I heard there were celebrations in the area,” Aaron sat in the same chair Wilkinson had been in, making a face at the wobble.

“It’s...you need a button, or something, under the leg--” Alexander began lamely. 

Aaron smiled at him, “I will just have to be very still. What is that look on your face for? Putnam told me about your victories at Trenton. You look as though you’ve been deep in thought.”

Hamilton regarded him, raised his glass silently in a toast. 

“Where are you two friends?” Burr inquired. 

“Monroe is being entertained in one of the bedrooms and Wilkinson is…” Alexander looked around, sighing as his eyes landed on the soldier, “...There with the...one-armed woman....”

Aaron let out a low laugh, “Godspeed, then.”

“I suppose I should be congratulating you, as well, Major, for the evacuation of Long Island,” Alexander eyed him, “My cheek has healed, by the way.”

“I see. You are _‘_ _piqued'_ Little Hamilton tonight. I was hoping for ‘cheerful’, or ‘amenable’.” Aaron smiled, “In that case my neck has healed as well. Though I still have the most frightful dreams.”

“No you don’t,” Hamilton hid a tiny grin in his glass. 

The conversation lulled, and the pair found two more drinks in front of them, courtesy of a thankful, patriotic bartender. 

Burr leaned in, “I can see the thoughts plainly on your face. You are never this quiet. There is something on your mind, tonight.”

Hamilton looked at him, debating whether or not to explain it all: what had been eating at him. The drudgery. The stench of death and mud, day in and day out. The frozen, dying men and the fact that no matter what he did his most celebrated moments were also the most terrifying and that he, Alexander, could not bear the thought that this was to be his life. 

“I want to talk about your stay with Washington,” Hamilton matched him, scooting his chair closer.

“There is nothing to say. He and I were incompatible,” Burr spoke as though he was sorry he’d asked.

“Yes but you must have learned something.”

“I learned that he demands unquestioning obedience. I learned that he is an impossible man to impress. He does not like his staff to--” Burr lifted his hand and gestured to the room around them, where handfuls of soldiers had paired off with some of the women, each in their own passionate embrace or flirtatious conversation, “--He is dull. You must join Putnam’s staff, with me.”

“Washington is the head of the army.” Hamilton concluded, echoing Monroe’s words, “He is having a dinner at his headquarters at the end of the month.”

He watched Aaron raise his eyebrows skeptically. 

“What? Major Burr-- what is that look for?”

“It is...that is not a position you want,” Aaron replied. “Trust me. It is drudgery through and through. Don’t you want to see action? I heard the stories about your artillery-- the bombardment so heavy it was like you were a man possessed--”

Alexander’s face heated and he looked away, “--Stop the flattery--”

“--No,” Burr whispered, and Hamilton caught the flame’s glare in his eye, “You are not a man meant to live your life at a desk. You are like me.”

Hamilton looked at him silently for a moment before responding in a similar tone, “I don’t know if that is strictly correct, Little Burr. We have had this conversation before. I do not have the same luxuries you do, and you know to what I am referring.”

“This war has equalized us.”

Alexander exhaled, fell back into his seat and took another sip of his drink, unable to find a response. _He’s not wrong._ He looked around the room again and realized he’d lost Wilkinson, too, who had disappeared into a back bedroom. He felt Aaron’s intense stare, as if trying to read his thoughts, and it unnerved him. 

Hamilton shifted in his seat. 

Burr went on, “Join the old man’s staff if you want. Apply for the job. You will see what I mean in time.”

“Why do you care so much?” Hamilton replied, too quickly. He watched Aaron’s countenance darken. 

“Is that really what you want? To be tethered to a desk, answering an old man’s letters? Correcting his grammatical mistakes and making tally marks in a little paybook and counting off the days until your retirement?” Burr’s words came out barbed, hot. “You are a soldier. You were made for war.”

“This is part of being a soldier,” Hamilton retorted, wryly, “Though I believe you once described it as ‘counting other peoples’ money’.”

“You are going to die at that desk.”

“Don’t say that,” Hamilton shot him a look.

Burr leaned in again, clarifying, “I mean it will be a death of your soul. Your energy and fire.”

“I simply disagree. He is the _commander-in-chief._ He is the center of the struggle, ” Hamilton replied. He studied a tear in his sleeve, raising his eyebrows, “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Major. Perhaps _your_ soul will be the languishing one, unchallenged as you are with Putnam.”

Alexander concluded by finishing his ale, setting it back down on the table with a soft clank, unable to meet Aaron’s gaze. 

“So we _do_ both want the same thing,” Burr spoke up after a beat, letting a small smile play on his lips, “Let us revel in that, then.”

Hamilton looked at him again, and he felt the tension dissipating, as the other soldier steered the conversation to more agreeable waters. _Now that is a useful skill._

Alexander awoke later, in the middle of the night, mouth agape and hyperventilating.

His dream scattered the minute he opened his eyes in the cold tent and he mentally grabbed what he could of it before it slipped from his consciousness for good. 

He was on the island again, drenched in sweat. He was alone in Cruger’s countinghouse. The papers piled up around him, the steady buzzing of flies and mosquitoes filling his ears and making his skin itch. He reached out to slap the bugs away, losing his balance and falling-- and suddenly he was in the ocean. 

The sun disappeared, and immediately in its place were suffocating, close, oversized planets in brilliant colors, bearing down on him like the hands of a giant in the sky above him. The stars twinkled between them and for a moment, Alexander forgot he was drowning.

 _This is beautiful,_ his mind told him, before dipping under the water, _I must remember it._


	22. Letters

Alexander received the invitation to dinner from Greene three days after his birthday. _A timely, meaningful gift_ , he thought. His robes had been cleaned—pressed—for the first time in months, 

“And just like that you no longer smell like a swamp,” Was Wilkinson’s blunt verdict. 

He chewed his lip and stared at the candles on the table. He was the first to arrive and felt rather silly. He adjusted the white tie around his neck and decided to embrace this image of a punctual, intellectual Captain. 

In his mind flitted pieces of the letters he’d written, phrases and words he’d said to the men who were far above his station, and not for the first time since he’d started the conversations, he felt the ever-present twinge of embarrassment. 

_Embarrassment at taking yourself too seriously?_

“God, no.” Hamilton spoke to himself, looked down at his sleeves, and straightened them. He noticed the dirt under his nails, briefly considered taking a knife and digging it out before cringing internally. He put his hands in his pockets. _No, that’s not quite it, is it?_

Monroe confronted him several days previous, in his maneuvering, Southern way.

Hamilton sorted through his clean clothes and new socks, feeling the unhappy presence behind him before he could turn to see it. 

“Got an interesting letter in the mail today,” Monroe began, stepping into the tent, “Apologizing for the rejection given for my inquiry into the position on Washington’s staff. And a subsequent congratulations for my new position on Sterling’s.”

Alexander glanced at him briefly, shoving different articles of clothing into his small leather bag, “Well-- apologies, and congratulations, then.”

“It is _strange_ , though, because I did neither of those things yet. Inquiry or application,” Monroe went on. 

“I see.” Alexander sensed the frustration coming off him in waves.

“Furthermore, you were the only man I told my plans to,” Monroe crossed his arms, thoughts solidifying in his mind as he spoke them, slowly.

“Wilkinson knew.”

Monroe scoffed, “You’re unbelievable, Hamilton.”

Alexander hitched his bag up, “Get to the point already, would you? I am busy.”

The taller soldier clenched his jaw and his words failed him. The accusation hung in the air between them. 

_You deserve this._

There was no time for that. No time for petty disagreements or wounded pride. Things would need to get done regardless of who did them. Men’s lives were on the line, and would continue to be, and the sooner his compatriots understood that, the better. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d had that particular thought, always speaking in his mind in a strange, alien cadence, soft. He _had_ to take himself seriously. Things _were_ serious. They were serious when men died in front of him and serious when he’d go days without sleep to answer letters from Jay on behalf of his starving men. 

The battle in Princeton stuck like tar to his mind. A new scar, two and a half inches, running lengthwise up the side of his left arm, pulsated with pain in the cold. He’d swallowed his fear, again, charging forward while the men around him scattered in fear, the college of New Jersey looming in front of him, filled with British soldiers.

Shouts from his men to retreat.

Alexander lit the chemically dipped fuses, staining his clothes, burning his fingers. Tore the rope with his teeth. Fired three rounds into the College, destroying the old, pretentious façade and several cowering men inside of it. 

_You deserve this._

He shook the image of himself as the dirty, bloodied soldier from his mind. There would be time to reexamine that. 

He was _here--_ at Washington’s headquarters, warm and pleasantly appetized at the scent of cooking food while snow fell prettily outside -- because of his own movements. 

No one else’s. 

Greene entered the small dining room, followed by General Washington himself, and a handful of aides and assistants. Hamilton felt himself straighten, heart beating faster. 

Why-- _why_ did he have to be there so _early_? Waiting like a child for his mother to serve dinner. 

_Shut up, don’t think like that. Smile._

“I believe you two have met,” Washington started, making his way over to the young captain. He made to say something else, then faltered. Hamilton cut in. 

“A handful of times,” he offered a smile, and a handshake to Greene, who returned them both. 

“A pleasure to see you again, Hamilton,” Greene responded, “You look well. I am delighted you were able to join us this evening.”

The younger officers shuffled in around them, taking seats at the long table. Hamilton watched and followed their lead, situating himself next to Greene.

The dinner tasted better than anything Alexander had eaten in months and not just because the wine made him friendly and the red meat brought vitality to his muscles and a healthy flush to his skin and the old Commander seemed charmed. 

“What do you make of this prisoner of war business, Hamilton?” Washington addressed him directly when the conversation ebbed. 

Alexander blushed, taking a bite and accidentally biting his tongue. 

“Terrible news from Brooklyn Heights,” he went on. Several of the aides nodded in agreement. “Your dear friends, Mulligan and...Robert Troup? I believe that is the lad’s name. Unhurt, but captured.”

“I...heard reports, sir,” Alexander said, mouth drying.

 _‘Heard reports’?_ The voice echoed him, mocking. _You spent the night fighting back sobs._

“You will no doubt need someone to craft delicate letters of negotiation for their parole and release,” Greene cut in, knowledgeable. 

Washington let the words sink in. Alexander looked from the commander to Greene, who had the shadow of a plan in the corners of his mouth. The conversation died again and Washington looked down into his food, moving some carrots with his fork. S _peak again,_ Alexander looked at each of the faces at the table. _Say it, speak again. Ask me, ask me--_

“Please, pass the wine,” Washington muttered, indicating to one of his staff. 

Alexander took another sip of his drink, and the alcohol burned his injured tongue, mixing with the blood and making the wine taste foul. He winced, swallowing. 

“I have known Troup since my days at King’s College, sir,” the word eked out of Alexander’s mouth, “Mulligan, since before that.”

“I see,” Washington chewed thoughtfully, bringing his gaze up. His aides and staff stared at Alexander, waiting.

_He will not make this easy._

“I think it would be beneficial to have someone with knowledge of the area, as well as of the prisoners themselves, craft the letters. One, a knowledge of the area will be imperative in order to know how to instruct the British soldiers with the details of the release. And two, intimate friendships with those involved will add a personal element to the negotiations, which will add urgency and energy to the task itself--”

“--And you see yourself up to this task?” Washington asked directly. 

The entire table had gone silent now; Alexander thought he heard the blood pumping in his ears. 

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you think, or do you know?”

_You deserve this._

“I know. I am confident I am fully up to the task,” Alexander straightened himself in his seat, while the Commander scanned him. 

He looked into Washington’s face for a sign of warmth-- _was he charmed? Annoyed?_ The silent seconds felt like hours while the table was held in rapt attention at the forwardness of the Captain. The probable thoughts of the other staff members sitting around them tortured Alexander: _Who does he think he is? I heard he has no family, no people. Who can trust a man like that? Surely he is insane. No man of good breeding would dare to force himself in a role he was not offered._

Washington looked down again, making a sucking sound with his teeth, “I am in need of a few new staff members, perhaps you have heard.”

“I have.”

“The generals will be choosing their new aides for this new year. Consider this your probationary assignment, Captain Hamilton.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied without thinking. 

****

Newspapers from all over the country found their way into Aaron’s hands, whether or not he wanted to see what they had to say. Oftentimes he found himself ignoring reports lest they bring his spirits down. It was easier to keep on his own path, without distractions, this way. 

Of course, that didn’t stop Matt from sending him letter after letter describing all the happenings in the continental army with stinging, oblivious clarity. Aaron debated whether or not to write to him to tell him to stop-- _I don’t want to hear about so-and-so’s good fortune, it hurts too much_ \-- and then decided Matt meant no harm in it, he was still the friendly boy Aaron had grown up with, and that is what Aaron loved about him, and it would be cruel. 

But the comparisons crept into the corners of his mind.

He shook the blank page out in front of him, blowing dust from the paper. He flattened it against the desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and began.

_Dear Matt,_

_As to "expectations of promotion," I have not the least, either in the line or the staff. You need not express any surprise at it, as I have never made any application, and, as you know me, you know I never shall._

Would his cousin buy it? Probably not. But something about putting the thoughts and words to paper made them real, despite how false they felt in his head. 

Matt was his mother’s son, sounding just like her when he pestered Aaron for news of his rising in the ranks. Aaron wished there was a way to shout--to scream--on paper-- _it hasn’t happened. Why must you insist on reminding me?_

_I should have been fond of a berth in a regiment, as we proposed when I last saw you._

That sentence, decided Aaron, felt just the right combination of pointed and polite. _We have discussed this before, Matt_. He stopped short of saying that exactly. Could almost see his cousin’s raised eyebrows and dry expression. Aaron wrote on. 

_But, as I am at present happy in the esteem and entire confidence of my good old general Putnam, I shall be piqued at no neglect, unless particularly pointed._

This wasn’t necessarily a lie. Putnam was kind, and friendly, and engaging which was more than could be said of some of the other generals. Aaron grinned to himself at the image of him naming Washington, directly, in one of his letters and having it intercepted. He rubbed his eyes. It would be like disparaging the king. The irony made him laugh, and he wished Matt were there to share in the joke. 

Some were made to handle blind obedience better than others. 

_'Tis true, indeed, my former equals, and even inferiors in rank, have left me._

Another name danced on the tip of his tongue. Aaron took the quill and rubbed the feather across his bottom lip in thought. The Pennsylvania Evening Post, folded and creased as though it had been read over and over again, sat in a pile with the other papers Putnam insisted on collecting from all corners of the colonies. Ostensibly, Aaron knew, it was an intelligent strategy: stay abreast of the goings-on as closely as possible. It made sense for a general to read papers from all over. 

But the words-- and the name fluttering around the recesses of his mind like a mosquito-- hit him at inopportune moments. 

_..Captain Alexander Hamilton, of the New-York company of artillery, by applying to the printer of this paper, may hear of something to his advantage..._

Putnam showed him the clipping excitedly. Aaron smiled at the old man, nodding and smiling. _Good soldier._ He swallowed a burning sensation that crept up in his throat, stealing the paper in the early hours of the morning before the old general had woken up, slipping it into his personal pile on his desk. 

_Starting a collection?_

Aaron wasn’t sure, and wasn’t quite aware that the Hurricane Letter and dirty poem and haughty, religious hymnals had slowly formed a thicker and thicker stack. Aaron thumbed the papers. He didn’t remember saving the Gazette with his favorite phrases of _Farmer Refuted_ , the one Reeve made him argue against as a pointless assignment. _Refuted, indeed._

_Assurances from those in power I have had, unasked, and in abundance; but of these I shall never remind them. We are not to judge of our own merit, and I am content to contribute my mite in any station._

This would have to do. Aaron signed his name and addressed the letter to Matt, pouring out his thoughts in a delicate, dripping way. _The deluge is too dangerous._

****

Summer hit all at once. The build-up was quick; screaming cicadas in the heavy afternoon air made it impossible to daydream. Alexander had done all he could for the Commander in the spring, the most important of which was retrieving his friends. 

He greeted Troup and Mulligan warmly, and the sweetness was compounded by the approving glare of Washington who all but told him he’d passed his first test. Alexander entered his quarters that night to a new set of quills, fresh ink and stacks of blank paper and a thank-you congratulatory note from Washington himself.

 _For Lt. Col. Hamilton,_ the note read in graceful script. 

“Probably written by one of his aides,” Alexander muttered, unable to wipe the smile from his face. The new promotion and title tickled him. 

The new promotion and title filled him with something solid and undefinable. He woke up early, unafraid of what the day would bring. Recklessly excited. They packed quickly, and moved on to Morristown, New Jersey. Alexander felt like he could spur his horse into a breathless gallop and keep riding until he hit the Atlantic ocean, the faces of the Commander and the rest of his officers brightening into looks of shock.

The days grew longer and the Commander found ways to keep him busy. 

“I love the spring, but more daylight means more work,” another aide, Tilghman, said to him one late afternoon over piles of correspondence. “I don’t know what it is about warmer days. I suppose it is because we have more light to write by. But this-- this is getting a bit out of hand--”

He picked up some of the papers and dropped them again, back onto the desk, looking somewhat overwhelmed. 

Alexander grinned, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Could do with a _bit_ of a break,” Tilghman said, almost to himself, eyes averted.

That evening, Alexander insisted on dining with the Commander, and his serendipitous timing struck again when Washington seemed to be in a giving mood, handing him a letter with a familiar name on the front. 

“You are well acquainted with the Livingstons. An officer received this from one of the girls, mistakenly. I trust you will be able to get it to the right people?” Washington spoke after chewing slowly, painfully. “Dear Catherine is staying with her family up the road from us. Please ride out tomorrow and deliver it. Send my greetings.”

_What planets have aligned--_

“Of course, sir,” Alexander responded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the ever-present, stupid smile from spreading. 

The letter was from Susanna, explaining to him that Kitty had _grown fond of politic_ s and needed someone _knowledgeable_ to discuss them with.

“God, is it really that easy?” Alexander scanned the letter rapidly, then re-folded it, speaking inaudibly under his breath. 

“You look like Satan himself,” Tilghman entered the room and Alexander jumped.

“What?”

“That smile. The letter. Do I even want to know?”

Alexander shook his head, “You don’t. Is my horse ready? I have to ride out tomorrow. General’s orders.”

Tilghman shot him a look, and left to grab one of the servants. 

Alexander didn’t sleep that night, again, imagining the conversation he’d be having in several hours’ time. Tried not to let it slither around his mind, dangerously, scheming. He rolled onto his side to get more comfortable, removed his blankets to cool himself off, got up out of bed to splash water on his face. 

_Jesus, Hamilton. Control yourself._

He lay back down and stared at the ceiling. It had been _so_ long. 

_Maybe she’d be alone. Maybe she’d need comforting._

The insinuating thoughts ran circles around his head until he fell asleep, fitfully. The next week he was right where he’d dreamed he’d be, standing face to face with Kitty, who regarded him smartly.

“I thought you’d been blown to bits at Trenton,” She stood with one hand on the door frame, eyes searching him. 

Alexander let himself in, “It seems God has bigger plans for me.”

Kitty made a noise and shut the door, following him into the drawing room.

She spoke, “If you’re looking for my sisters they’re on a walk. Susanna told me she’d written to you regarding me and I expected the worst. I assume that’s what this is about.”

Alexander turned and produced the letter, “It is.”

“You look different.”

“I am different,” he answered. 

Kitty sighed, slipping her finger into the wax-sealed slit, slippined the paper out and reading it rapidly, “Every time I see you it’s like you are a different person. Oh, Susanne, for heaven’s sake--”

“What does it say?” Alexander sat back on an upholstered chaise. 

Kitty looked at him, “As if you don’t know. She’s so meddlesome. Wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face, Hamilton, or so help me God.”

“Susanna is just doing what any caring sister would. She knows you have a thirst for political knowledge that she is unable to quench,” Alexander leaned back.

“Boy, your words.”

Alexander shrugged; smiled at her again. 

“And so what is this? Are you going to sermonize at me like some boring old self-important reverend?”

Alexander matched her, “Do you really care? Or is it just idle female curiosity?”

Kitty sat next to him, cheeks tinged pink, “If I said I really cared, you wouldn’t believe me. If I said it was just idle female curiosity, you would patronize me. But either way I suppose I will be able to get what I want, regardless of tone. I want to know what you know, about the enemy.”

“Well, I cannot divulge too many secrets. What if I were to give away tactics? And the British were to learn of them because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut in the face of a pretty girl?”

“For God’s sake,” Kitty hit him playfully on the shoulder, then pointed at him, “ _This_ is why Susanna is embarrassing. This is why I begged her not to say anything, because I knew you’d use it as an opportunity.”

Alexander adjusted himself against the upholstery, “Fine. All I can say is the present situation of things gives birth to very little worth notice. But it seems... pregnant.”

Kitty’s expression flattened, “Birth? Pregnancy? Are you trying to hint at something? If so you’re doing it with the subtlety of a rock to the teeth.”

“I am speaking in a language I thought a lady would understand.”

Kitty made a horrified expression, and Alexander let his face split into a mischievous grin. 

“Alright,” Alexander exhaled, smiling, thinking, “What can I say? Let’s see. Some recent movements of the enemy give us an idea that they are planning something, though what specifically I cannot say, truly. I am Washington’s closest aide--what he knows, I know,” he added with pride, glancing at Kitty out of the corner of his eye. 

“That is good then, I suppose. The ladies say much of the same,” She put a finger to her lips in thought. 

“What do you mean?”

“The circle of women I speak with. The local gentlewomen. What? Did you not think we keep track of these things, too? Why on earth do you think Susanna reached out to you?” Kitty responded quickly. 

Alexander held a hand up, “Alright. I apologize for insinuating your ignorance. Do they have ideas about where the next enterprise will be attempted?”

“Philadelphia,” Kitty replied confidently. 

“I see,” Alexander smiled. 

“How did I do?”

Alexander studied her face again, instincts flaring hot and quick in his stomach. _She is sharp-- and fun._ He gave her his answer by leaning in for a kiss. 

“Alexander--!” Kitty pulled back, denying it, “What on earth are you doing?”

“I--”

“My sisters will be home in the next hour,” Kitty dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper, as though her family were already in the next room. Her color deepened and her heart raced, “I understand you are desperate for the comforts that are denied you, being on Washington’s staff, but please think--”

Alexander watched her graceful neck turn pink, contrasting prettily with the tight lace choker, “I _have_ thought.”

“Look at me,” Kitty hooked his chin with a finger, bringing his gaze to hers, “This is reckless.”

He stared into her irises, golden flecks in warm brown, embolden, “I know, but doesn’t that make it a bit more fun? I thought I…knew what your taste was. I am sorry if I am mistaken but maybe you can tell me what you _do_ like--”

“Not getting caught in my bloody drawing room,” Kitty hissed into his ear.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last time we met,” Alexander admitted, loosening his necktie absentmindedly, “You were so forward, I assumed--perhaps erroneously-- that this would be the inevitable conclusion of our friendship.”

Kitty craned her neck to peer out the window, then looked back at him, words failing her. 

Alexander reached out and touched a loose ringlet laying on her collarbone, “Complex, intricate, enigmatical--”

“--Yes, _yes_ I’m duly impressed with your vocabulary,” Kitty whispered, standing and pulling him up, “If we are to do this it must be quick. And if anyone ever finds out, I will know exactly who spoke. I will hunt you down and castrate you.”

Alexander followed her up the stairs, heart racing, fingers fumbling over his buttons. They reached a back bedroom and Kitty slammed the door and locked it in one swift movement. Alexander fell back onto the bed, her hands on his chest, pushing him down, and the pleasant warmness that he’d been able to keep at bay rose inside of him all at once. 

Kitty was right, it was quick-- _and hard, and satisfying, and Christ why did you wait so long for this you utter fool--_ and he imagined she was some sort of forbidden goddess, one of the graces, or Diana, or Venus--his thoughts spun the erotic scenarios too quickly to process. She knew exactly what to do and how to touch him and th e guilty voice in the back of Alexander’s head quietly explained that it was because _she is married--she is married and you’re fucking another man’s wife--and it shouldn’t feel this good--_

He was almost disappointed at how difficult it was to stay in that moment but the explosion came and he stifled his cry with his teeth, clenching them, groaning. 

They lost track of the time, laying there in the still air. 

Kitty spoke first, clearing her throat and collecting her thoughts, “Washington is going to know something happened.”

Alexander rubbed his eyes, “Don’t.”

“Well, I’m just saying. He’s going to want to know why on earth you spent a whole day here,” she sat up, gathering her loose shift. She dropped her legs over the side of the bed, “Hand me that pin, will you? The gold one.”

Alexander complied, watching her twist her hair up into a loose bun. She went on. 

“I certainly won’t say anything. But he has sources everywhere.”

Alexander fell back again, the pleasure being replaced with something leaden.

“He may be distracted. He is going to have a busy summer,” Kitty kept speaking, matter-of-factly, adjusting her skirts and indicating Alexander lace her stays up in the back. He maneuvered himself toward her and began situating them. She went on, “There’s talk of them sailing up the Hudson to join with a different branch already in Albany, nearly doubling the size-- I believe the plan is to sever New England from the rest of the colonies--”

“--You knew of this?” Alexander asked.

Kitty turned back to him, “Of course I did. I told you. The wives talk. Jesus, Alexander, pay a bit more attention to what’s happening around you and not what’s going on in your pants.”

“But--I thought--Susanna made it sound like--”

Kitty’s ringing laugh, “--Do you feel _used?”_

“A bit!”

“There’s not a soul in this state or it’s neighbors that doesn’t have contacts with someone with intelligence. Word spreads too quickly to see or sense. You just have to listen. I think you underestimate women,” Kitty said smartly. She sat at a vanity and picked up a brush, taking out the hairpin and working through some of the knots. She crossed her legs, “Are you hungry? I could use something hearty. Later I will check with the kitchen staff to see if they’ve made anything.”

“What else do the women know…?” Alexander dressed and stood behind her, watching their reflections in the mirror. 

“There were some reports from… what’s the little tavern on Pearl street in Manhattan? I have only ever been once, and it was so long ago. Some of the women reported that they saw British ships being built in the river. The owner is a terrible snoop, apparently,” she went on, “The more exciting talk is all about the Marquis de Lafayette, who will be arriving sometime in the next few months. I think that is so interesting--a marquis.”

Alexander frowned, his elation all but dissipated. 

Kitty looked at him pointedly in the mirror again, “Oh come _on_ , Alexander.”

That night he rode until he saw the beginnings of the sunrise, thought his horse was going to drop from exhaustion. The small voice chiding him about how the high couldn’t have lasted for much longer, and that reality would come crashing in on him eventually, expect it. And here it was. He entered the Commander’s headquarters feeling like a different man. Washington gazed at him, his expressionless face suddenly terrifying. 

“How were the Livingstons? Were you able to deliver your letter?”

Alexander stood straight and still, “I was, sir.”

Washington nodded briefly, silently-- and Alexander busied himself with sorting through the stacks of papers and paybooks, making sure to note every name. He worked diligently, silently, the Commander seemingly unaware of how painfully awkward the silence was for Alexander. Every time he thought of something to say, he looked up, over, at the older man, and shut his thoughts down. He let them mix in the back of his mind; the reality of the drudgery settling in all at once while summer began to come alive around him. 

The Commander knew more than he let on. 

Alexander scratched a long, thick black ink line through a mistake on a letter and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to start over until he got it perfect. 

“I need you to transcribe something for me.”

Washington stood in the doorway, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, staring into the papers he shuffled in his hands. Alexander jumped and messed up his line again, swearing under his breath. 

“Are you quite alright, Colonel Hamilton?”

“Yes, sir-- I apologize, I--”

Washington walked over to him, “These, if you don’t mind. I need copies of all of them. I need you to inform Putnam of the promotion of one of his aides-de-camp. Prioritize this, as I need it sent out first thing in the morning.”

 _Flashes of Cruger_ \-- the snarky internal voice mocked Alexander. “Stop it,” he whispered to himself. 

“What was that?”

Alexander popped up from the floor, where he’d been gathering his dropped quill, sitting in his desk again, “Nothing, sir. Leave the letters. I will have them finished for you this very evening.”

“Very good. Thank you,” Washington nodded in the definitive, but kind, manner Alexander had come to expect, and he was alone again. Alexander flipped idly through the letters, stopping on one that made an unfriendly, reflexive smile creep across his mouth. 

The phrases jumped out at him and Alexander knew the words in the letter before reading the entire thing--

_...a new army is to be raised...for political reasons it is deemed expedient to select, with propriety, colonels of regiments and gentlemen of INFLUENCE...Colonel Malcolm, formerly a merchant in the city of New York... highly respectable, universally esteemed, but not a MILITARY MAN...I hereby appoint Burr as lieutenant-colonel of his regiment…_

Alexander’s smile stiffened and hollowed, fixed to his face. 

****

Aaron stopped marking off the days on his pocket-calendar, stopped looking at the stars to determine the seasons-- _it is miserably, unbearably hot, and that is all that matters-_ \- stopped talking, for a time, to his fellow soldiers. He was sullen in mind as well as body, and, unless he wanted to be chided out of the army, dared not show it to a single soul.

Not to Putnam, who presented him, excitedly, with orders for his new regiment and promotion, reading out the proclamation over dinner one evening to Aaron’s hot embarrassment.

“‘Pursuant to orders received from his excellency General Washington, you are forthwith to repair to Fairfield and to transmit to me without delay the intelligence you shall from time to time receive of the movements of the enemy, or any of their fleets’”, Putnam chewed loudly, smiling, “Not bad, Burr.”

Not to the other aides, who, while grinning and nodding their appreciation, no doubt secretly harbored vicious jealousies.

Not _least_ of all the wild new regiment he was given, oh-so-generously, from Washington-- the regiment who’s colonel had abandoned them, ostensibly to spend time with his family and ailing wife. 

The letter came to him in a rapidfire scrawl Aaron knew well. He sat at his desk later that night comparing the handwriting. _I know it’s you, Little Hamilton._ The candlelight flickered prettily across the page for a moment, until Aaron shoved it unceremoniously into his pile. 

Somehow, in the past year, Aaron mused one afternoon, staring at the letter in front of him, again, until he felt the words burn into the back of his eyeballs, the story of Fort Bunker Hill and Putnam’s idea to save Hamilton’s artillery had spread across the entire eastern seaboard.

Putnam was excited and proud, of course, and Aaron had to smile and accept the written command, forcing the thank you from his mouth like it pained him. 

“You will please write a letter to the Commander, Burr,” Putnam stuck his head into Aaron’s room one morning, without greeting, pipe hanging from the side of his mouth, “Write a letter to tell him you accept, and I will add my signature. I would do it myself but I am a bit slammed at the moment, you understand. The aides don’t know my handwriting from yours, anyway.”

Aaron stood, “What do you mean, sir?”

Putnam removed the pipe, “Oh, the Commander doesn’t read all his correspondence. Too much. The aides take care of it all.”

_I can affirm, with the greatest truth...._

Aaron smiled darkly to himself. He sat back down, put both hands on the desk in front of him for a moment, before slipping a blank sheet of paper from a drawer. 

_Sir, I was this morning favoured with news of my appointment to Colonel Malcolm's regiment. Am truly sensible of the honour done me, and shall be studious that my deportment in that station be such as will ensure your future esteem._

Alexander’s proud face, receiving the letter and opening it and having to report the contents to the Commander. 

_I am nevertheless, Sir, constrained to observe, that the late date of my appointment subjects me to the command of many who were younger in the service, and junior officers during the last campaign._

“How do you like that, Little Hamilton?” Aaron muttered, “I told you the work of an aide was tedious.”

_With submission, and if there is no impropriety in requesting what so nearly concerns me, I would beg to know whether it was any misconduct in me, or any extraordinary merit or services in the other men, which entitled the gentlemen lately promoted over me that preference?_

Aaron finished this sentence and put the quill down, reading and rereading the words. He felt his neck warm, face flush, at the vision of the dull Commander and his righteous little officer synthesizing it. He had a brief twinge of conscience-- _perhaps you are being too high-handed_ \-- and Aaron brushed it aside. _No, this feels too good._

_Or, if a uniform diligence and attention to duty has marked my conduct since the formation of the army, whether I may not expect to be restored to that rank of which I have been deprived, rather, I flatter myself, by accident than design?_

“Surely you didn’t _mean_ to pass me over, General,” Aaron mumbled again, talking to the paper, pushing the kinder thoughts from his mind. He paused after a minute, though, pursing his lips. 

_You may have to see him again, you know._

“Fine.” Aaron picked up the quill, thinking better. 

_I would wish equally to avoid the character of turbulent or passive, and am unhappy to have troubled your excellency with a matter which concerns only myself. But, as a decent regard to rank is both proper and necessary, I hope it will be excused in one who regards his honour next to the welfare of his country._

He dropped his quill in the well with a quiet clank, and sat back, before picking back up again for the kill-shot.

_I am not yet acquainted with the state of the regiment or the prospect of filling it; but shall immediately repair to rendezvous and receive Colonel Malcolm's directions. I have the honour to be, with great respect, your excellency's obedient servant-- A. Burr._

Aaron ended the letter with a lie, imagining the indignant, and ultimately futile flame that would rise in Hamilton’s stomach and chest. Perhaps he would sputter. Perhaps he would protest. Perhaps he would deem the letter so peremptory and arrogant he’d toss it in a river. But he _would_ read it. Aaron folded it and sealed it with the wet, hissing wax, like a scalding kiss.

****

“You cannot...under any circumstances...show this to Washington,” Tilghman looked up at Alexander, holding Burr’s letter, almost astounded, “I am serious. He will have the man stripped of his rank. He’ll have Burr digging ditches and filling them with corpses, in disgrace.”

Alexander clenched his teeth, “Yes. I know. I am asking you what I should do with it.”

He hated Burr, at that moment, for putting him in this position. Hamilton received the letter and read it with his mouth open, needing to go back over it three more times to make sure he was reading it correctly.

“You either pretend the letter was lost or you come up with one on your own,” Tilghman replied, shaking his head. 

“So I am to lie for Burr?” Alexander said, “I did not ask for this!”

“Do not raise your temper with me, Hamilton. You’re the one who petitioned Washington to let you be in charge of his correspondence. This comes with it--” Tilghman inclined his head, “--Supercilious ramblings from disgruntled officers included.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Alexander hissed, lifting his hand with the letter in it, letting it drop to his side. He made his way back to his own desk. He settled for a moment, catching his breath like he’d been running a marathon. He looked down at Burr’s graceful, pretty script, “You absolute horse’s ass. Just say thank you, _LIttle Burr.”_

Alexander read the letter over one last time, the oblivious conceit of it catching in his throat in a painful, swelling jealousy. In the next second he crumpled it, tossing it into the low fire, watching it disintegrate with a set jaw until it was ash. 

Washington did not ask for Burr’s response, and Hamilton did not bring it up. 

But it sat in the back of his mind, crawling out at night-- _a lie of omission, they call it. But a lie nonetheless._

He hated Burr for forcing his dishonesty. He hated Burr for the demanding, proud letter that flashed in his mind every time Washington asked Hamilton do something menial; hated Burr for the way it sounded, echoing off the walls of his imagination at inopportune moments-- _Colonel Burr-_ \- the promotion Burr had simply _expected_ and was granted without a fight. 

“We are to remove to Hill House in Roxborough at the beginning of the month, and we are to meet with Lafayette in Philadelphia as soon as possible. Make arrangements at City Tavern. Draft the letter tonight, please, Hamilton,” Washington called out to him in passing, surrounded by a flurry of movement, walking too quickly for Alexander to ask what it should contain, specifically. 

He threw himself back down into his chair, wiping the sweat from his forehead. 

It began to wear on him-- the unpleasantness of the clerkship. _That word!_

FIrst, the anxiety of dealing with men far his superiors in rank--like the absentminded Gates, who failed to keep track of the number of men in his troops receiving recruiting bonuses. The pay column in Alexander’s book was a scrawling mess of ticks and tallies-- he’d discovered that some of the men in Gates’ regiment were deserting and then reenlisting to try and game the system into getting more pay-- and Gates hadn’t noticed. It was a delicate, uncomfortable letter Alexander had to come up with, on the fly, to at once both inform and admonish. 

Another letter that made it impossible for him to sleep after he’d sent it off-- one to Arnold, who seemed to want nothing more than to throw his entire regiment into bloodied chaos, desperate to attach a garrison in Rhode Island with no cause to. 

He lay in bed that night, his carefully chosen words resounding.

_Unless your strength and circumstances be such that you can reasonably promise a MORAL CERTAINTY of succeeding, relinquish the undertaking and confine yourself to a DEFENSIVE operation._

Second, the delicate balance of assuaging egos: Alexander had come to learn that the state legislatures were--’ _jealous’ cannot be the best word, but it fits_ \--of the Commander’s control over their individual militias. Alexander rolled over onto his side, scoffing in the dark. _What difference did it make if they were all working toward the same goal?_ He wanted to write as such, but thought better, his paybooks for the New York militia catching his eye and reminding him of their dire situation. 

_Better not to anger any of those in a position to help. And hadn’t it always been that way?_

“You may inquire with this gentleman, Gouverneur Morris,” Washington said one day, handing him a slip of paper, “He is New York’s delegate to the state’s congress. He will make sure the militia of the state is properly outfitted.”

Alexander set to work petitioning: _delicate, tactful, but forceful_ . That was the new rhythm that beat in his mind. He received a friendly and engaging response quickly, almost shockingly so, from Morris and Alexander slept soundly that night . A childish thought flickered briefly before he slipped under: _you’ve made a new friend._

 _There was so much more at stake than one spoiled brat’s inability to be promoted,_ Alexander woke up, snapping his eyes open at this new burst of awareness. 

He packed up headquarters with the rest of Washington’s staff and they were just outside Philadelphia when Alexander learned of Morris’ bold plan.

“You are to act as a confidential military liaison for New York,” Tilghman explained. “You’ll be saddled with more correspondence, I wager, but at least you’ll be able to write for yourself. That should please you.”

 _It does_ , Alexander said, and he set to work drafting letters to the monied congressmen, taking extra care in his tone. 

Alexander managed to hold his tongue for most of the night, dining on food that was too rich for his stomach after a year of malnourishment. The alcohol went to his head too quickly, as it had at his first dinner with Washington. The room was loud, and too warm for the deathly still August night. The room began to spin and the smells of the food mingled with the closeness of men. Lafayette was younger than he was, Alexander discovered. The young Marquis kissed the Commander on both cheeks in greeting-- _too familiar, too haughty, too obviously expectant,_ Alexander seethed quietly-- and Alexander found himself staring like a drunkard. 

When his head hit the pillow his eyes closed and the dizziness made him gag. Flashes of his first few months on the Commander’s staff popped in and out of his slipping consciousness, and he fought them down, trying to quiet his mind for sleep. _Letters, letters, letters…_

_Each demanding something._

Alexander remembered Monroe’s off-hand description of Washington as the head, and his staff the arms, of the army. Lately, Alexander felt like the arms, alone. Imagined himself as a ferocious creature with eight limbs, and laughed quietly to himself. 

“Shut up, will you?” Came an aide’s disgruntled voice in the dark. 

One more letter piqued him. 

Alexander saw the name in his mind’s eye, Hugh Knox-- _I have faith in you, Little Hamilton_ \-- and his chest felt heavy. The wine made his emotions suddenly more prescient.

_Mark this: You must be the annalist & biographer & the Historiographer of the American War! _

If Knox only knew how his hand ached at the end of every day. 

_I take the liberty to insist on this. I hope you take minutes & keep a journal! If you have not hitherto, I pray do it henceforth. I seriously & with all my little influence urge this upon you. This may be a new & strange thought to you; but if you survive the present troubles, few men will be as well qualified to write the history of the present Glorious Struggle. _

Alexander opened his mouth to answer the silent thought and slowly thought better. His compatriots snored loudly, dragging him back to reality, an up-and-down bouncing. _Who has time for a journal?_ Alexander crafted the response in his struggling mind, flipping onto his stomach to stop the churning in his gut. He closed his eyes and his mouth dropped open again, drifting. 

_God only knows how it may terminate. But however that may be, it will be a most interesting story._


	23. Disobedience

The idea of a journal haunted Alexander. Reverend Knox meant well-- had, always, his best interests at heart. Knew him better than most, saw him at his worst. Lifted his spirits when he had nothing to live for, even. But the journal--Alexander stared at a pile of letters in front of him-- when would he have time for that? Surely the Reverend had to know how busy he was. What purpose did it serve, planting the idea in Alexander’s head?

He tried to understand why it made him feel so antsy.

The distractions and duties volleyed for his attention day by day. 

“The General is hiring more staff, don’t worry,” Lafayette had smiled at him, rosy-cheeked. Alexander wanted to be annoyed by it but couldn’t, his infectious enthusiasm infiltrating their quarters one stifling afternoon. 

“He’d better be,” Alexander muttered, unable to contain his frustration any longer. 

Lafayette stood in front of a mirror and basin, washed his face and straightened his jacket, “I will pretend I didn’t hear that. In any case your duties will need to be put on hold, for a bit, at least for this evening.”

“Not another blasted dinner,” Alexander sighed, tossing his quill. 

Lafayette eyed him again, “Don’t you want to meet the prospective new officers?”

“Yes, but--” Alexander indicated to his work, “--Surely there are...more important things? Seventeen thousand British soldiers on their way from New York? Almost  _ certainly  _ on their way to Philadelphia?”

Lafayette turned to face him, sighing, “I take it your intelligence sources have been active.”

Alexander bit his lip nervously. It was from every quarter. Kitty’s confident assessment rang in his mind. Letters from Mulligan, the tavern-keep Fraunces--

“--Cato seems to agree with you,” Lafayette interrupted his thoughts again. “Mulligan has the poor man making crossings through naval ports almost every night, now. Seems strange to use a slave to me.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Alexander responded, short, realizing he wasn’t getting any more work done that evening when Lafayette was in a talkative mood. He went on, “The British don’t expect an African to be working funneling messages to Washington. Mulligan is using that to our advantage.”

The conversation ended there with a pregnant pause. Alexander busied himself with his jacket. 

_ An issue for another day. _

It was Crooked Billet, this time. Alexander eyed the dirty sign flapping in the evening breeze, memorizing the name and address, knowing it would be just another line in the paybook he’d have to keep track of. The appetizing smells of the dining room hit him and he immediately felt bad for being so sour. They headed for Washington’s table at the back of the room and the general stood in greeting. 

Alexander never stopped getting hit with a sliver of nervousness at the sight of him; Lafayette slid past him breezily, pulling the older man into a familiar French greeting while Alexander eyed the other men at the table--some he recognized, a few he didn’t. He realized he’d have to be engaging this evening whether he wanted to or not and decided to sit next to a stranger: tall, broad-shouldered and clear-eyed; aristocratic bearing. _ At least he won’t ask too many questions of you.  _

To Alexander’s slight dismay, the soldier to his right introduced himself, extroverted, and his questions began immediately. 

“John Laurens, South Carolina,” he held out a hand and Alexander shook it briefly-- _ firm grip.  _ John went on, nodding in the direction of the head of the table, “Is he usually that distant? He sent me a letter signed in his own hand and I assumed I’d at least get a chance to talk to him tonight but he hasn’t so much as smiled at me.”

Alexander accepted a glass of water, “So you are one of the new officers, then?”

“I am.”

“Well, get used to it. He is indeed that distant,” Alexander replied, not meaning to sound so cold.  _ Perhaps Washington is rubbing off on you.  _ He stared ahead.

John nodded to himself, as if taking Alexander’s words to heart. Alexander glared at him out of the corner of his eye. John went on, “I see. Well that is good to know. I won’t take offense to it-- I suppose a commander cannot play favorites. It would be unseemly. He must be terribly lonely.”

Alexander coughed into his water, covering his mouth with his napkin. John watched him, puzzled, and Alexander found his words, “Oh...you’re serious. He’s well-liked, I assure you.”

“Liked and feared, then” John smiled. 

“The only man on earth who manages to be both,” Alexander sighed, inclining his head towards Washington, who sat silently at the head of the table like a patriarch. Beside him, Lafayette spoke endlessly, moving his thin hands against the white tablecloth, engaging everyone around him. 

“I do not know how he keeps himself together. I would be beside myself with anger at the state of some of these troops. You know I’ve seen more soldiers without shoes, than with them, of late?” Laurens took a sip of water, shaking his head. “Disgraceful. And we are expected to be without supplies for the foreseeable future. I hope I get a chance to make my case known once I am fully vetted and accepted into his confidence.”

Alexander copied him, taking a drink from his own glass, the wine going immediately to his head. “Believe me, I know. It’s all I’ve been saying to my connections in New York, for the past six months. The conditions are intolerable.”

John focused on Alexander, interested, and the latter man pressed on, “The conditions are intolerable and I fear…some of the more weak-willed soldiers are becoming victims of their own frustrations.

Alexander raised his eyebrows; to his embarrassment, John let out a loud laugh, “What is that phrasing? ‘Victims of their own frustrations’? You mean--  _ camp girls _ ?”

Lafayette paused his sermon to Washington and the two of them glanced sidelong at John and Alexander. A long, awkward silence hit the table. 

Alexander turned red, “No, not that, and for God’s sake lower your voice. I mean, men are angry, taking their anger out on one another.”

“Well, no one is getting paychecks.” John offered. “I daresay that would solve things.”

“I know,” Alexander reiterated, feeling himself loosen up, and his mind come alive, “I myself have had to sacrifice my own comfort for my men. They are grateful for what they can get, but I know the reception is not always so understanding. Some have taken to trickery in order to get what’s due them, deserting and then reenlisting under a different name in order to get more recruitment money. I would be impressed if it weren’t so dishonest.”

“I suppose it’s a smart plan. Men get very innovative when it comes to money.”

“You have no idea,” Alexander muttered, finishing his wine in one more gulp, without thinking. He glanced over at John again, “How are things faring in South Carolina? The same?”

John nodded, pursing his lips, swallowing, “The very same. Disorganization. Desertion. If I stop to think too much about it I get despondent. It doesn’t help that my father insists on explaining it all to me, every little painful detail, in every letter, as if he’s reminding me of how dire things are. As if I don’t already know.”

Alexander looked at him, “I assume he has your, and the army’s best interest at heart.”

“That’s what he tells himself, anyway.”

There was a slight bitterness, suddenly, Alexander realized, and he forgot his earlier pledge to sit quietly.

He prodded, as delicately as he could, “I think I have heard praise of your family, in passing. I am sorry to hear they cause you distress.”

This seemed to unlock something in John; his features opened, almost sad, “If I had a dollar every time I heard that I’d be able to pay the soldiers a decent wage. I shouldn’t speak ill of my father but...let’s just say he and I do not always see eye-to-eye. I think he harps on me to remind me of who’s in charge, rather than out of some pureness of feeling. Certainly you can understand the friction between a father and son. I'm sure every parent and child goes through it.”

A quick prong of jealousy hit Alexander, more irritating than painful, as he stared at the face of his new friend. He stabbed a piece of meat and shoved it in his mouth, “I do not, actually.”

John went on, quieter, somewhat oblivious, “I am sure he means no harm. But he is  _ so  _ fond of reminding me who controls the purse strings.”

Alexander focused on the plate in front of him, something about this man making it difficult to stay quiet. The others at the table seemed to disappear around them while John talked on, pleasantly, as if they’d known each other for years. 

_ Thank God, _ Alexander thought to himself, _ a fellow officer with whom I have a rapport.  _ He began thinking of ways to use the man’s gift for conversation and extroversion to his advantage.  _ A good diplomat. A go-between for Washington and some of the more unruly soldiers. He seems to have the patience for it.  _ Alexander stole another side-long glance, studying the finely-tailored suit and expensive details.  _ Gold buttons. _

“Did you hear me?” John interrupted his thoughts again.

Alexander blinked, snapping back to the present, “Sorry-- I--”

“--The wine is strong,” John smiled. “I asked what you think about the rumor of the Hessians attacking Brandywine.”

_ “Oh,”  _ Alexander exhaled, raising his brows again, a dark feeling curling up inside his chest, “I hear reports of different numbers. Lafayette and General Washington seem to be taking it seriously, and that’s enough for me. I suppose the only way to know is to wait and see. There is a tiny part of me praying the British make another ridiculous mistake like at Trenton to give us some lucky advantage but save for  _ that… _ ”

He trailed off; John studied him, “I’m starting to sense that the bigger picture here is save for a blessed outpouring of serendipity from God himself we don’t have a prayer.”

Alexander grew quiet, uncomfortable again. The sentiment was a common one, but a dangerous thought to voice so cavalierly. He took another bite and changed the subject.

“I fear winter so much,” Alexander turned his head, dropped his voice even further and leaned in. John mimicked him, listening over the din around them. Alexander indicated to his chin, “Just last year I fought with another soldier over encampment protocol.”

A sympathetic veil covered John’s face, and he reached out to run a thumb over the tiny scar that sat on Alexander’s jawline, “I hope you gave him what he deserved.”

“Nearly choked him unconscious,” Alexander grinned. Then, more serious, “My point is-- he has since been promoted to lieutenant colonel of his own regiment. If men like that are being given positions of authority-- men who don’t even respect it-- it does not bode well for the rest of the army.”

“We need more good men,” John said definitively, his voice getting louder again. He seemed to catch himself, and then said in a lower voice, “The men we have now are fatigued. Drained of all the excitement they once had for their own freedom. Do you think you could put in a word with New York?”

Alexander looked at the man next to him, whose face had flooded with color, “I...well, I do not know how much power my voice has, I have been asking for supplies for months, now, and--”

“--you have the ear of Washington, don’t you?” John cut in. Something about this man was endearing, thought Alexander.

_ Like a more willful version of yourself. _

Alexander sat mute for several drunken seconds while John waited expectantly. He found his voice after a beat, “...Yes, yes I supposed I could write to him on your behalf. Shall I mention you by name?”

“That won’t be necessary. I do not care for recognition in that way, just so long as it gets done. I am only one voice in a chorus of men who feel the same.”

Alexander looked at him for a moment, then, “That is very good of you.”

“You are the first person who will actually listen to me,” he continued, pouring two more glasses of wine for them, and Alexander eyed it. John talked on, casual, “The men I know and have dealt with...they are simple. Not evil, mind you. But unwilling to view the world as it is. Only as they hope it will be.”

Alexander watched him, and took a sip. The bitter alcohol washed over his tongue again, and settled uneasily in his stomach. He prepared for another night of churning insides, sleepless and taut while the room spun. 

“I can understand that,” he managed to say. Briefly he glanced around the table at the other men: Washington being held captive by whatever Lafayette was saying, the other nameless soldiers talking amongst themselves. John wiped his mouth on a napkin, and pressed on.

“We have two related issues facing us at the moment, if you will permit me,” he had Alexander’s attention again. He held up two fingers, “One, we are short on soldiers and man-power. Two, the infernally evil institution of slavery--”

At the second point, John dropped his voice, eyeing Washington.

“I suppose you are wise enough not to bring that second point up with the commander,” he said.

Alexander took another large sip of wine, “No.”

“You will find a stone-wall when bringing up the sin,” John said, and he reiterated, “I am from South Carolina. My own father will not listen to me. But I am certain only good will come from doing away with it all. To me the solution seems obvious; two birds, one stone.”

“...Go on.”

“I was thinking about the soldiers, and how almost one in three are African, or freed slaves,” John explained, “Would it not make sense for some of the southern colonies, who cannot even manage to make quota with the amount of men they send, allow for the enlistment of slaves in exchange for freedom?”

“And how do you propose it?” Alexander asked politely. Though he couldn’t see him, Alexander was absolutely certain Washington was casting a cold eye; knew he and John weren’t being as quiet as they thought. 

He focused on John’s slightly purple-stained mouth as it moved. 

_ One half-glass, Little Hamilton? That’s all it takes?  _

“I should like to form a battalion, my own battalion, of  _ free  _ men,” John said, leaning in closer, “This is one of the things I tried explaining to my father, mistakenly thinking his fondness for me would spare me from his scorn. He doesn’t want to hear it-- says his profits are none of my concern. But this would solve many issues, would it not?”

From across the table, Lafayette’s laughter rang out, mixing with some of the other officers at the dinner. He addressed Alexander specifically.

“I must be droning on,” Lafayette raised his hand and indicated to Alexander and John who had moved their heads together as if in confidence. He smiled, engaging them, “These two seem deep in thought. Surely Hamilton has much to say.”

“I am--well--” Alexander gesticulated aimlessly, “--The army--”

“We were discussing supplies,” John jumped in, breezily, “The usual complaints.”

“Ah,” Lafayette nodded, closing his eyes knowingly, “Just as the General and myself were.”

Washington stared into his plate, a blank slate of hidden thoughts. For a brief second, Alexander thought he saw the general’s eyes dart back to him and John, but concluded it was a trick of the flickering candlelight. He grabbed the decanter, and poured himself another glass. Beside him, John touched his arm, smile spreading across his face.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” 

Alexander looked at the hand resting against his sleeve, and his stomach flipped. He tried to remember the last time he’d been touched. 

****

When the response to his letter never came, Aaron was tickled. He packed his things, preparing to ride out to meet his new regiment, the smile never leaving his face. It felt  _ good _ , knowing that he had, in some way, rattled the Commander’s staff. He hitched his bag up, preparing a horse; hoisted himself on it and was off.

McDougal greeted him, face inscrutable. _ Is he a friend to Washington?  _ Aaron inhaled and tried to flatten his expression, matching the general’s. He tried to remember his reputation in pre-war New York: rabble-rousing and loud. Not sure what to expect, Aaron hopped off the horse and walked over, greeting the older man, who nodded tersely. 

McDougal, much to Aaron’s surprise, was all business. 

“I take it your ride was uneventful?” McDougal asked, leading him through rows of tents to his own. 

“It was. Thank you,” Aaron answered, rote. 

“How were the taverns along the way? I hear stories that they’ve been plundered. Most aren’t letting soldiers in, from either side.”

Aaron adjusted his bag again, “I found them accommodating,” leaving out the more scintillating details of the women who took pity on him,  _ small frame and pretty face, aren’t you handsome _ , and took him in.

McDougal lifted the curtain and let them both inside and in front of Aaron, among other things, was a table with a map sprawled across it. He scanned the room: piles of clothes, artillery, a wash basin, a smudged mirror-- nothing to indicate McDougal was set apart, in a position of authority. He looked back at the older man who busied himself with flattening the map with a few heavy stones. He lifted a finger, and pointed, “Just about ten miles that way is your new regiment.”

Aaron raised his eyes, and followed the general’s indication. McDougal continued, shaking his head.

“Colonel Malcom is a decent man, but I fear is in over his head with this regiment. I asked General Washington what to do and he suggested you. I’m sure you know by now the high opinion he holds of you.”

Aaron let out an involuntary laugh, quite by accident, and cleared his throat to hide it. 

“You think that’s funny, do you?” McDougal turned to him, raising a brow. “Well. Think what you want. The fact remains that he--and I, frankly--seem to think you’re the only one who can put a stop to the unseemly shenanigans.”

“I hope to prove him correct in his assumptions of me.”

A shadow of amusement passed briefly across McDougal’s face, then disappeared, “You  _ are  _ a severe one, aren’t you.”

Aaron shifted, softening his approach, “I apologize for my mood, sir. I have not been sleeping well. It is the heat.”

“Well. Don’t expect that to change any time soon,” McDougal turned back to his map, crossing his arms, “You have a devilish task in front of you with this set. Whip them into shape by winter. That is the goal.”

“---They are in want of discipline, I hear,” Aaron interrupted. McDougal looked at him pointedly, nodding.

The older general relayed the story Aaron was familiar with. He could not decline the position that also came with the promotion. He let McDougal’s words fade while he stared through a slit in the tent at a fire nearby. But that didn’t mean he wasn't aware of the hidden insult. Aaron thought about seeing Hamilton again; what he’d have to say about it.

By the end of the week Aaron moved ten miles out to the rowdy encampment, The Gulph -- _ sounds like one of Dante’s levels of hell- _ \- where he was greeted with hoots and hollers.

“Are you lost, little boy? Where is your father?”

More laughter, as if it were the funniest joke any of them had ever heard. Aaron ground his teeth and walked past them, fuming. He saw Washington’s smug face; heard his voice. 

_ Of course, General McDougal, Of course I will send my least favorite Colonel to help this regimen. What a splendid idea. Colonel Hamilton, draw up the orders, please.  _

A splatter of wet mud hit him squarely in the chest, and more laughter erupted from a crowd of soldiers nearby. Aaron straightened his back and wiped it from his vest, making his way to his new quarters. 

He cinched the flaps shut, tight, falling back onto a nearby stool, exhaling as if he’d been holding his breath for the entire day. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. 

_ This is what you wanted, Colonel. Your promotion. Have at it.  _

****

Aaron did not have to try very hard to keep the regiment busy. He stayed up late, chewed an old wound on his lip until it burned, planning the attack in the morning, alone in his tent. 

The British, he’d been told, were two-thousand strong, on one side of the river, and it did not take a military genius or puffed-up artillery captain to know what their plan was: plunder and ransack every storage room and farmer’s cellar for as much as they could, and destroy morale in the process. It was a two-fold plan, Aaron thought, studying his maps. More active troops and a feeling of accomplishment would go far for the unruly men, and locals would bless them for the protection. 

He put his chin in his hand; began making notes. 

He lost track of time and before he knew it the sky was turning a pale blue. 

It was a thirty-mile ride.  _ Don’t let them see how exhausted you are. _

He commanded them to camp out and wait for nightfall to begin the attack.  _ Don’t let them hear the worry in your voice.  _

Aaron counted his men again.  _ Three hundred against two thousand? You’re out of your mind.  _

For two days and nights--  _ are you sure it’s been that long? How can you keep track of the time-- _

“Colonel Burr--” A voice shook him out of his thoughts. 

Aaron turned his horse to see a scrawny, nervous aide named Gardener, looking up at him and shielding his eyes from the sun, “Yes?”

“I have a message from General Putnam.” He brandished a piece of paper.

Aaron took it and read the words:  _ Retire with the public stores to the mountains...it has been forty-eight hours...the men are tired.... _

“He wants us to leave and abandon the mission,” Aaron gripped the harness so tight his fingernails dug into his skin. The scrawny aide watched him, waiting. He went on, “I’m not running.”

“Is that...will he consider it running, sir?” Gardener walked alongside the horse, trying to keep up. “There is rumor of the British army on their way-- rumors of pillaging and mischief on farms some miles ahead. What’s to stop them from heading our way and ruining our efforts here? If they see us taking their stores it could be hell to pay--”

_ “I’m not running from an enemy I cannot see.” _

Aaron kicked his horse into a faster gallop, dirt and dust picking up around him. Gardener coughed and waved a hand in front of his face, watching him disappear into the fray. 

“A change of plans, men,” Aaron raised his voice, and the soldiers gradually stopped what they were doing to look at him. He gestured, “Repair the fences and arrange them as fortification, as best you can. Work quickly. Gardener--”

Gardener appeared alongside the horse again, “Yes?”

“Gather about thirty men. As soon as it is dark enough, we are going to go inspect these rumors ourselves.”

Without further argument, the aide complied amidst the grumblings of the men who, Aaron could tell, were annoyed at having their plans foiled.  _ He tells us one thing, and then the next hour another.  _ Aaron tried his best to block out the complaints as the afternoon dragged on and the fortifications were built. Pushed down the embarrassment at perhaps being given wrong information, or false rumors; tried not to imagine how stupid he’d look if it all came to nothing. 

The sun set fast. Amidst the chirping and humming of the last bugs of the season, Gardener approached him with the men.

“What is the plan, sir?”

Aaron answered, and it was only then he realized he was making it up as he went along.

Putnam was right-- Aaron didn’t let the chagrin burn him for long--and they came upon the enemy encampment as the sliver moon hit its highest point in the sky, barely illuminating his men’s nervous faces.  _ Attack the picket, _ he heard himself say.  _ Do not charge or fire on pain of death.  _ He led them silently, leaves crunching, through the sentinels, coming upon the guards before they had a chance to register the men.  _ Go-- _

Aaron acted independently of his mind. _ They didn’t suspect you. You have the advantage.  _

A hot splatter of blood hit his arm from somewhere to his left and he reached for his gun, flashing red, cocking it and pulling the trigger and in the next millisecond heard the scream of a man who hit the ground with a wet thud. 

_ The first is always the easiest. _ Aaron reloaded and shot again. _ Was it your first?  _ Another scream. The smell hit him quicker than the visual as a cloud drifted across the moon: the stomach-churning stench of death, unlike anything else in the world.  _ They were unprepared.  _ He yanked the reigns of his horse again and shouted something his brain couldn’t focus on just yet. His men seemed to understand, cheering and shouting at the sight of the British retreating and leaving the rest of their stores. _ How happy and relieved will the farmers be. How proud Putnam will be.  _

****

“It was reckless and disobedient, that’s what it was,” Alexander’s neck warmed, reading the reports from Hackensack. He took the letter and shook it out, waving it, “There was every indication his plan would have backfired and it was nothing but luck.”

“Wars are won and lost on luck, Alex,” John replied, leafing through a book. 

“He has a history of this, trust me,” Alexander folded the report and shoved it into a folder, “And once again I will have to make excuses for it. I thought Burr trusted Putnam. Why on earth would he flaunt his orders?”

“Who cares, as long as his regiment now has enough livestock and grain to last through the winter?” John lifted his eyes, somewhat confused, “I am sorry Alex, but I feel in this case the ends justify the means.”

“Oh, do not think this was his plan from the beginning,” Alexander responded, preparing a report for Washington.

“How on earth do you know?”

Alexander didn’t answer. He reached out and shuffled through copies of letters in Burr’s praise that had found themselves in Washington’s possession, an officer named Yates’ oversized, looping script: _ I congratulate you upon the good fortune you met with in taking off the enemy's picket. We have had various accounts about the manner in which you executed the plan. The particulars I should be glad to hear from yourself. _

And another--  _ Colonel Burr: The enemy have landed at Powler's Hook in great force. I am apprehensive they mean attacking Fort Montgomery by the way of the Clove. I have sent my baggage and some forces there. The enemy must be attended to. You will therefore halt in the nearest place that is convenient upon the receipt of this. Keep a good look-out towards Newark, Elizabethtown, etc. Should you be in danger of being interrupted there, throw your party across the river and defend the bridge, if practicable. If not, make the best retreat you can towards Morristown. But by no means proceed unless necessity urges, derived from the present object. In everything else pursue your best discretion. _

It seemed, to Alexander, that the high-ranking generals were allowing Burr more freedom for his indiscretions, rather than less, and he struggled to make sense of it. 

The struggle dissipated with Washington’s orders the next morning. 

Alexander listened as he relayed the increasingly dire situation of the supplies, quill scratching the commander’s words faster than his brain could register what it would mean for the men: _ thirty-eight hundred barrels of flour, soap, candles, twenty-five barrels of horseshoes, several thousand kettles, entrenching tools-- _

Washington’s voice seemed drained of vitality; the items piled on top of each other in Alexander’s mind until they became a tangled mess of failure. 

“I volunteer.” He spoke before dropping his quill, and the commander stopped talking mid-sentence. 

“Pardon, Colonel Hamilton?” Washington lowered the paper he was reading from. “You are needed here. Please continue with the transcribing.”

Alexander ignored an on-coming headache, insistent, “Sir, if you will permit me-- I know the area well. I have knowledge of all that we’ve lost,” he indicated to his notes, “Let me take some of the men to ride out to Deviser’s Ferry to destroy the flour mills. It is better that no one have them than the British.”

The commander was tired, Alexander could sense the weakness in his energy. Washington’s features softened minutely. 

The same plunder, the same mills, the same terrified farmers. 

Alexander found himself riding alongside Henry Lee who set his jaw in determination.

“The mills are right on the bank of the Schuylkill,” Lee dropped his voice, instructing, “You will descend a long hill leading to a bridge over the mill-race. Once we reach them, you will take possession of a flat-bottomed boat for the purpose of transporting us across the river, should the sudden approach of the enemy render such retreat necessary.”

“Do you think it will be necessary?” Alexander hated the sound of fear in his voice. 

Lee was brutally truthful, “Almost certainly.”

In a flash the guns sounded, the cavalry moved, and like Lee predicted Alexander loaded himself and three others into the boat. 

The waters beat against the sides, nearly tipping them, and it was all Alexander could do to keep it steady. He pushed through the current, imagining his straining muscles popping loose while the whites of his compatriot’s eyes flashed in the darkness, fearful. He heard Lee engaging the enemy, distracting them; the constant rattle of gunfire and yelling. A loud splash to his right, and Alexander knew before announcing it that they’d been spotted and were being fired at-- _ abandoned it. You need to get out. Jump into the water and swim away and order your men to save their lives.  _

_ How could it have gone so wrong so quickly? _

Alexander had no time to be embarrassed; he gave the orders and watched the three other men escape before him. His stomach turned the wrong way as the youngest was hit by a stray bullet and he screamed out, his elbow hanging sickeningly at the wrong angle. Alexander swallowed and pushed his horse as fast as it would take him, feeling the sweat from the animal beneath him soak his clothes. Lee was nowhere to be found--  _ did you think he’d follow you? _

He reached Washington’s tent and the pale look in his face made Alexander think the Commander wouldn’t see his aide alive again. 

“Colonel Hamilton,” Washington stepped forward, the situation gradually sinking in, relief and terror mixing strangely on his features, “The reports were grim. They said you had been killed.”

Alexander doubled over, let his lungs fill, inhaled and exhaled, “It went wrong from the start. Lee is still fighting.”

“How do you gauge the enemy?” 

“If Congress has not yet left Philadelphia as we warned them to, they ought to do it immediately. I fear the worst, sir,” Alexander let the words tumble out of his mouth between gulps of air, “We, my men and I, were fired upon in our boat. I believe one man was killed though through the fray I cannot be certain. We had to abandon the boats-- I did everything I could--”

Washington brushed past him with a brief touch on his shoulder before exiting his tent. John entered, as he left, eyes wide, “They are riding toward Philadelphia, then?”

“Our worst fears are confirmed,” Alexander replied. He moved quickly, grabbing a parchment and quill, without lifting his eyes from the paper, “Send someone to deliver this to Hancock. Tonight. Tell them to push the horse until it collapses, I don’t care.”

“Alex--this is--” John began to argue with him, doubt crossing his features.

“Just do it!”

John took the letter and nodded at him, pink circles alight on his cheeks.

****

It was becoming easier and easier, controlling the regiment and forcing them to do what he said. It was about distraction, Aaron thought. A gentle balance between keeping minds occupied and engaged. When he learned that a different camp of British soldiers were stationed less than a mile away, he set to work repeating the success of his previous plundering. The men, to his mind, seemed ready and willing to engage in any type of conflict they could-- and Aaron set to work using this to his advantage. 

_ Night of terror. _ That’s what the farmers had called it. 

“They took everything,” an elderly man lamented as Aaron surveyed the damage with two other officers, “Worst part is, we don’t know when to expect it. They’ve just stationed themselves there, up the road. Some of us haven’t slept in days.”

His voice rattled and Aaron sensed he was near tears. Aaron turned his head, letting the older man have his dignity. 

A different voice tugged at him; he turned to see the face of a man called Hunter, who’d been with them on the first preventative raid, “The situation is much the same here, Colonel. Pillaging, ransacking. I believe the strategy is to wear these people out with worry and unpredictability.”

Hunter looked around the small village, and Aaron followed his gaze, answering, “We have to do something about it.”

“I agree, but the men are exhausted.”

“They’re always exhausted,” Aaron cut him off. “Prepare some of the men to ride out with me tonight to inspect this camp.”

“Another night ride, sir? Forgive me, but perhaps allowing just one night of full rest--”

“--Was I not clear?” Aaron snapped, without thinking, “Do as I say, unless you want another Deviser’s Ferry debacle.”

Hunter stared at him, stony, for a moment. He held his tongue, and nodded curtly, before turning on his heel. 

Night fell on Aaron’s regiment and he was off. Aaron felt himself come alive as the sun set, despite the chilly temperatures. He ignored the annoyed faces of the men who grumbled about their tiredness. Ignored the inky darkness of the moonless sky, making everything impossible to see. Ignored the sounds of indiscriminate wildlife in the woods, looking for anything to eat. 

“Sir, the sentinels,” an officer whispered to him. “Two of them, on lookout. Any more noise from us and they’ll shoot without warning.”

“We are going to take them by surprise. If we can drop the number of sentinels by half we have a better chance.”

“Sir, are you sure?” The officer interrupted his thoughts again, a twinge of both fear and annoyance in his voice.

Aaron hissed, shooting him a look, “As soon as I kill one of them, you will need to act quickly.  _ Do not argue with me.  _ We must all be on the same page. If we scatter in confusion, they’ll slaughter us all. Do you understand?”

The officer nodded slowly, swallowing. Aaron lifted his gun, and took aim. He pressed the trigger, slow at first, and all at once the gunshot rang out and the bullet hit one of the sentinels before he knew what was happening. As Aaron predicted, the chaos began immediately-- and like Aaron predicted, his men did exactly what they were told for fear of retribution-- running forward and plundering the British camp as they’d done to the unsuspecting, unarmed farmers. 

A savage thought ripped through Aaron’s body-- _ make them pay _ \--and he didn’t have time to address it before falling victim to it. 

****

“Don’t think too much about it. You did what you thought was right,” a Virginian officer, Marshall, sat with Alexander while he sorted through the heated, cursing correspondence from Congress. 

Alexander sat sullenly at his desk. 

“From what I understand, Adams is...prickly,” Marshall tried again, attempting to be diplomatic, “He’s a New Englander after all.”

Alexander did not answer, chewing the same spot on his lip, tearing skin with his teeth. 

“If Congress wants to be annoyed with you for trying to save their lives, well, that’s their problem. Personally, I think it’s childish of them to fault you. All the intelligence points to the fact that the British will eventually take Philadelphia. Timing was off, that’s all,” Marshall began pacing the small room, absentmindedly. 

Alexander clenched his jaw so tightly it gave him a headache in his temples. _ Philadelphia will be no loss to us- _ \- that was what this Congressman, Adams, had apparently said-- though the rumors could never be proven.  _ Philadelphia will be no loss to us. Damn your efforts, Hamilton. Fuck you.  _

“Look, you weren’t wrong,” Marshall moved his hands while he spoke in a voice that made Alexander feel like a stupid child, “Even Washington thinks so. Personally--”

“--Don’t you have other things to do?” Alexander snapped. 

Marshall’s expression hardened, “Don’t  _ you?” _

Alexander didn’t answer him and pushed himself away from his desk, scattering papers. 

“What now? Where are you going?” Marshall followed. 

“I’m riding to Philadelphia.”

_ “...What?” _

“You asked if I had anything better to do. Well, I suppose I do,” Alexander felt his cheeks heat, and his temper pour out on the unsuspecting Virginian, pointing aimlessly to the rows of tents nearby, “I’m sick of sitting here letting men who’ve never even held a fucking gun chastise me for trying to keep them safe. Those men are going to starve to death because men like this  _ Adams  _ send us rum instead of blankets and expect us to be productive and fine and then damn us for making a small mistake. It’s madness.”

Marshall was maddeningly calm, “What does that have to do with riding to Philadelphia, Colonel Hamilton?”

“It is getting colder and men are going to die from exposure and low morale. I’m going to gather as much as I can from the city before the British sack it and if Adams wants to complain like a fretting child than he’ll be able to do in a warm, safe bed, protected by a well-fed army,” Alexander shouted, garnering the attention of some of the other officers. 

Marshall turned slightly pink, lifted a single hand and dropping his voice, “Hamilton, you are active and able and I do not doubt your talents but this feels, to me, like a fool’s errand. Do you have men who will ride with you? It doesn’t seem so. You will not be able to adequately obtain a supply that will make much of a difference…”

The buzzing in Alexander’s ears drowned out Marshall’s protestations and he readied his horse with stubborn hands. 

****

Putnam looked at his aide appreciatively, “I must say, your work these past months has been excellent, Colonel.”

Aaron stared at the floor, “I am just doing what I am told, sir.”

At this, Putnam let out a short, loud laugh, “You and I both know that is incorrect. In fact I would venture to say it has been the complete opposite.”

Aaron lifted his gaze to see a gentle exasperation on the general’s face, his own nerves slowing and receding, “So...I am not in trouble?”

“Of course not,” Putnam reiterated, shuffling through the papers in front of him, picking them up and glancing at them one by one, “Have you read some of these reports? The farmers are calling for you to lead them against the British. They want to form their own battalion, with  _ you  _ as their leader.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Aaron replied. 

Putnam leaned in, over his desk, “Between you and I, I think they’re desperate for any semblance of military expertise. Malcom can’t be bothered, as you know, and with our dear Commander getting tied up with the bloody mess in Philadelphia...I don’t have to paint too detailed a picture for you, do I?”

Aaron opened his mouth, unsure how to respond. Putnam cut him off. 

“You can say it, Colonel. Morale is at an all-time low. Congress in shambles, running from Philadelphia under a false report. Never mind I suppose, Colonel Hamilton will have to answer for that and I daresay he won’t make the same mistake again,” the old general waved his hand, falling back in his chair, shaking his head, “The debacle at Deviser’s Ferry-- you know they thought him dead for two days?”

“I hadn’t heard, sir,” Aaron straightened his back and furrowed his brows, “I knew the raid was unsuccessful but I didn’t know--”

“--Planned to decamp without him. Then he shows up again and darts off the most peremptory letter to Hancock I’ve ever seen--  _ a lad of twenty-two-- _ demanding our governing body do exactly as he say. Then when he realizes his poor timing he rides off to Philadelphia himself to gather as much as he can,” Putnam’s cheeks deepened in color and frustration, and Aaron noticed the half-empty bottle of liquor on a shelf behind him, "For Christ’s sake, I cannot fathom why Washington doesn’t get his house in order.”

“Perhaps Colonel Hamilton thought he was doing the right thing,” Aaron offered, slowly. 

“Intention means nothing without knowledge and skill,” Putnam responded vehemently. He went on, “I take it you’ve heard about Cliveden, as well? Seventy-five men from the New Jersey militia, killed. Utter chaos. A thrown victory that should have been ours. Schuyler humiliated and undercut.”

Putnam paused, pursing his lips. Aaron watched the older man recount the tales, with interest, slowly realizing that active duty had kept him--protected him-- from the finicky politics of touchy generals. 

“Without boring you or sounding like a gossipy boarding house madam I will tell you that the New Englanders’ voices are getting more and more pronounced and they are sticking their fingers into issues they have no business in.”

Aaron listened while the older man explained the disagreements-- that Samuel Adams had nominated Gates to replace the embarrassed Schuyler, that Washington distrusted Gates’ leadership skills, that Aaron’s own one-time general, Arnold, despised Gates even more for taking away his command and refusing to congratulate him on his defeat of Hessian forces. Putnam spoke succinctly, clearly, about the mess at the top that Aaron was only vaguely aware of and it left him with a slight chill at his neck. 

_ Who is steering this ship? _

“Sir...if any of this comes to light...the structure already feels so fragile,” Aaron offered, when there was a break in Putnam’s explanation. 

He pointed, “That is where you come in. You have more than proven yourself. I think it is time you reacquaint yourself with the Commander and his staff. Infuse a bit of...inspirational leadership.”

Aaron’s mouth went dry and he stepped forward, “Oh, General, I don’t know-- I don’t think...General Washington...I am certain he despises me, sir--”

“--Nonsense,” Putnam fished out the paper he was looking for and grabbed a pair of spectacles, eyes darting across it, “And besides, you mustn’t worry about being liked or disliked. That is not our end-goal, here. You are treasured by the farmers and that is what’s most important.”

There was a swift, thick silence between them, punctured only by the sounds of the autumn wind whistling through the cracks in the tiny, chilly, dimly lit room. Putnam shifted in his chair again and the flames from his candles shifted with him. He lifted his gaze again, over the top of his glasses. 

“I do not want to impact morale any more than it already has been but things are worse than you can imagine, Colonel. I tell you this in confidence, with the knowledge that since you are a mature, battle-tested officer you will keep this between you and I,” Putnam continued. Aaron gave him a quick, stern nod, and this seemed to be enough. The older man went on in a lower voice, “My fellow generals are not even half as confident as I am that we will make it through this winter alive and in-tact, given the chaos of the current leadership.”

“Sir…” Aaron blinked, stepping forward again, close enough to put a hand on Putnam’s desk.

“I know that warning tone, Colonel, and it is misplaced. There are no mutinies brewing among us, I can assure you. But it would be false to tell you all is positive and hopeful. Some of the men serving under General Washington are not...treating him with the deference a man in his position deserves.”

Aaron paused, digesting, then, “...And what does this have to do with me?”

Putnam exhaled, “I think, once this issue comes to a head, and mark my words, it will-- it would be beneficial for the men on his staff to see someone so devoted to duty as you. Especially with winter on it’s way.”

“I still don’t understand, sir.”

The older man put a hand to his mouth in brief thought. Then, collecting his words, “Are you familiar with a man by the name of General Conway? He seems to be familiar with you.”

“I have heard the name,” Aaron furrowed his brows again, “I have heard some unfriendly reports that he is essentially a mercenary.”

“And what do you make of that?”

Aaron let a small, unwitting laugh escape him, “I’m not sure my opinion on the subject matters.”

Putnam mimicked the chuckle, looking back down at his papers, “Spoken like a politician. But you are correct. Anyway, Conway is reckless with  _ his  _ opinions, to say the least. I do not personally enjoy his company but have no reason to wish him harm however it has come to my attention that he’s gone above Washington’s head for promotions and glory. I suppose I don’t need to tell you why that is both insulting and damaging to the Commander himself as well as the army at large.”

“You do not, sir.”

“It is therefore necessary that you and your regiment head to Whitemarsh, and further toward Philadelphia for the winter. Should this lack of confidence issue come to a head it would be beneficial to have a regiment of men nearby setting a good example,” Putnam reiterated, standing. 

He made his way over to the younger officer and put a hand on his shoulder, “I have full confidence in you, Colonel Burr.”

The compliment, rather than fill him with pride, sat like a leaden weight in his stomach. He wondered whether Hamilton was having a similar conversation with his own presiding general and the stone sunk further. 

****

Alexander turned on the uncomfortable, ill-stuffed mattress, finally able to synthesize the past few days’ events in his mind with uncomfortable but necessary clarity. _ You brought this on yourself.  _

He cringed, trying to shake the vision of himself standing before the Commander while his heart beat nearly out of his chest. 

“It’s unacceptable, sir. Gates had no right accepting the promotion,” Alexander heard himself say. He closed his eyes against the inn’s stinking, dirty pillow and tried to let the memories lull him to sleep but every time he shut his eyelids, they flickered with energy and the visuals in his mind. 

Alexander walked over to Washington, who stood close to the fire, using the light to read a letter with a dark, heavy expression. The older man did not respond, and Alexander’s nerves kicked in.

“I take full responsibility for some of the failures of the past month. I should not have acted so hastily with Congress. I should have heeded Marshall’s words about riding to Philadelphia myself. I take responsibility, to some extent, for the disillusionment of the Adams’ as well--”

“Colonel Hamilton,” Washington cut him off sternly, and the younger man shut his mouth, “This is not an opportunity for you to bleed yourself dry, do you understand?”

Alexander bit his tongue and nodded, waiting for further instruction. When it did not come, he spoke again. 

“May I ask what the letter says?”

Washington’s jaw flexed and his skin flushed, “It is exactly as I feared. Some of the generals have taken it upon themselves to spread malicious, harmful gossip and some of them, despite their seniority, have encouraged it.”

“Who are the--”

“--I cannot have this,” Washington raised his voice, stung, crumpling the letter and tossing it into the flames. 

“The Council of War, you spoke to them yesterday,” Alexander followed him to his desk, “What did they say about the situation? What can be done?”

Washington shot him a knowing look, “That one of my officers should be sent to Gates, personally, in order to lay before him the exact state of this army. You ask what can be done-- you want to prove yourself-- you know what I am going to say, Colonel.”

_ You know what I’m going to say, colonel.  _ Washington’s dark, frustrated gaze and Alexander’s realization that he was the only one fully acquainted with the state of the army and the situation of the enemy--pages upon pages filling volumes of notes about every detailed cent and maneuver.  _ You want a place at the table? You will set this right.  _

It wasn’t exactly punitive, but it certainly wasn’t a reward. 

The dichotomy of it rattled back and forth in his brain on the entire day’s ride to his first stop on the way to Albany. 

_ The mission is delicate and requires specific, detailed knowledge that only you possess. Gates has become too popular with the New Englanders and it is improper for him to cultivate such emotions. You are to convince him to set aside his personal dislike of Washington and make him march the northern army south, to join the Commander, and heal the rift once and for all. _

Alexander turned again, muscles aching from the stiff saddle and the breakneck pace he’d set, riding nearly fifty miles that day. 

_ And who exacerbated this rift? _

That was the question Washington wanted to ask but was too kind to say it. The bodyguard Alexander had taken with him, Gibbs, snored loudly, rhythmically, making it impossible for Alexander to relax enough to drift into unconscious sleep. He grimaced in the dark. 

_ Who were the aides that promoted the malicious rumors?  _

This was a vain question, Alexander chastised himself. Did it matter? Perhaps. He turned over again and a distinct pain in his neck flared accompanied by another groan from Gibbs. The curiosity still burned him. What were they saying? And to who? 

_ You mean, was  _ your  _ name mentioned.  _

“That’s not true,” Alexander whispered. 

_ You have a mission, just shut your mouth and do it and for God’s sake don’t disappoint Washington or your career is over.  _

He fell into a fitful sleep and was shaken awake early the next morning by Gibbs. 

Alexander cleared the itch in his throat and rubbed away the pain behind his tired eyes and set for another fifty miles. 

The next inn: desolate and drafty and stinking of wet wood and dirty clothes. 

Sleep evaded him and he sat by the light of a thin candle, drinking a lukewarm dish of tea in hopes of soothing the scratch in the back of his throat that threatened to bloom into a full-blown fever. He thought if he distracted himself he could keep it at bay. 

The next morning it was worse; and he sniffed, the wetness in his nostrils causing him to sneeze. 

“Sir…?” Gibbs looked at him, worriedly, while they readied their horses, “It is another sixty miles to Fishkill, or thereabouts...are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I’m fine,” Alexander snapped. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and pushed himself further, the cold air rushing toward him while his horse galloped exacerbating his running nose, stinging throat and sore eyes. His teeth hurt; his muscles hurt. 

_ You had better make this right, Hamilton.  _

Colonel Morgan greeted him the next day, early, before Alexander could let the aches settle into him. He was, to Alexander’s great relief, all business. 

“The northern army is marching down on both sides of the river,” Morgan, accompanied by several men from his corps, welcomed Alexander into his tent, and indicated to a map, “They will probably be at New Windsor by tomorrow. Putnam has also resolved to send you about four thousand men.”

“And in Albany?” Alexander asked, stifling a cough.

“Generals Paterson, Glover and Nixon have men remaining there, to build barracks.”

Alexander nodded, mentally checking off the list in his mind.

He fell asleep that afternoon with a dull pain in his temples, and woke with a migraine as the sun went down. Someone had left the window open in the small bedroom and Alexander realized his voice was gone. He got up with a start, not meaning to sleep for longer than twenty minutes, to the sound of voices in the dining room beneath him. Older generals asking where he was; Gibbs, making excuses.

Alexander dressed as quickly as he could, chugging a glass of lukewarm water to dislodge the pain in his throat, and made his way quickly to the tavern.

“You sound like hell, Colonel,” Hughes greeted him. 

Alexander eyed Gates’ aide, “The cold weather does not agree with me. Shall we begin?”

Hughes shrugged and motioned to the maps on the table in front of them, covered in notes and troop movements. Alexander rubbed at his temple and motioned for a cup of tea. Hughes sat quietly, almost haughty, waiting for the younger colonel to speak. 

Swallowing, Alexander pressed ahead, “I spoke with Morgan yesterday morning and learned that Putnam will send four thousand men. While this is good, it isn’t enough.”

Hughes scoffed, “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve been looking over the numbers, here,” Alexander pulled out a small book and leafed through it, aware that Hughes was making a face, “And according to my calculations and sources, it would appear that General Putnam is lying about his numbers. I am sure this is an honest mistake on his part. Are there any more militia unaccounted for?”

Hughes set his jaw, “You’re putting me in an impossible situation.”

“Just answer the question, Colonel Hughes.

“Yes,” Hughes replied quickly, “They are to stay in New Jersey. Putnam’s orders.”

“And how many men are in New Jersey?” Alexander lifted the tea to his mouth, realized his hands were shaking and prayed the older man wouldn’t notice. 

“What does it matter?”

“It matters because the Commander needs them to head southward. All of them.”

“You’re going to have to talk to General Wynds,” Hughes pushed back, “That’s who they’re stationed with.”

Alexander balled a fist beneath the table, “I am not running around in circles on a wild goose chase, Colonel. The situation is more dire than I think you understand. I need assurances from you that these men will join Washington in the coming weeks to help fortify Philadelphia. Now, how many men are left?”

Something flickered behind Hughes’ eyes, and he scanned the younger officer with a look Alexander knew well. 

“Seven hundred men. If you think that’s enough to turn the tide of war then godspeed,” Hughes added, pride wounded. He went on, “But you’re going to have to get it in writing from Putnam, not me. Not Gates. He’s the only one who can sign off on it and the only one the men will listen to.”

The frustration lingered in Alexander’s body for the rest of the day, pacing and prompting Gibbs to advise him, wearily-- “If you’re just going to obsess over it you might as well ride out to see Putnam as soon as possible. If you’re feeling up to it. Otherwise, lay down and try to get some sleep, for Christ’s sake.”

Alexander didn’t have the right words to argue with him, but knew he was right. 

The night he rode out further, using the last of his energy to push himself toward Putnam’s camp, several miles further north. 

He hopped off his horse, tied it to a nearby post, and made his way toward the general’s quarters. 

Putnam looked up in surprise at the sight of his guest and Alexander detected a flicker of chagrin. He greeted the general and looked around, “Apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, General.”

Putnam snuffed out the pipe he was smoking, clearing his throat, “Not at all,” came the response, tinged with exasperation. He stood, taking a book with him and sliding it into a small shelf. He turned back to Alexander, “What can I do for you this evening, Colonel Hamilton? I was not expecting you until late tomorrow. Or…” he checked his watch, “...Later today, I suppose, to be exact.”

“Again, I apologize for the lateness but this is something that cannot wait.”

Putnam lifted his hand, according the floor to Alexander.

“Sir...I am alarmed. Astonished, even,” Alexander began, trying to ignore his clammy hands, “I spoke with Colonel Hughes yesterday and he told me that you are withholding men, in essence frustrating Washington’s plans and perhaps even putting the army itself in danger. He has asked that you send two brigades southward, and thus far you have not.”

“I explained the situation to your general--”

“--Our general,” Alexander cut him off and Putnam’s expression darkened.

“Our general,” the older man corrected, “That those men are needed here. I have already directed a regiment southward with Colonel Burr. I cannot see what seven hundred extra will do that his men can not. He is the best and most skilled soldier I have,” Putnam added, eyeing the change in Alexander’s energy. 

Alexander let a shiver rip through him and he steadied himself. 

“Are you  _ well _ , Colonel?” Putnam frowned. “This can wait. I suspect if Washington knew the extent of your exhaustion--”

“--He does not know I am here.”

“What?”

“I said-- he has given me authority to speak to the officers on his behalf but he does not know I am speaking with you,” Alexander let the words fly from his mouth, suddenly, righteously angry. He closed his eyes and swallowed once more, the burn in his esophagus making his eyes water, “Sir...in the most explicit terms and by Washington’s own authority, I order that all the continental troops under your command may be immediately marched to Kings Ferry, where they will cross the river and reinforce the army.”

Alexander opened his eyes to see the darkened look on Putnam’s face. The older man opened and closed his mouth several times, searching for words. 

“You are as jumped-up as they say, aren’t you,” Putnam replied after several seconds. 

“You may or may not listen to me but your non-compliance will need to be explained to General Washington in person,” Alexander added, ignoring the dig. He softened the blow, “I have the fullest confidence you will exert yourself to execute this order and I trust in your skill as a military--”

“--Do not patronize me, Colonel,” Putnam cut him off swiftly. Alexander felt the pulse at his neck quicken, watching the older man make his way to his desk, “You have no earthly idea how bad things are. You think you do, but I promise you do not.”

“I am merely obeying commands, and I advise you do the same. Respectfully, sir.”

Putnam scrawled something in a log book, lifting his gaze as he finished the few lines, “You are protected from the anger and frustrations of the other generals because you are in Washington’s inner-circle. Perhaps you realized this, perhaps not. Either way, you do now. Blind obedience to this man is not as admirable a talent as you think it is.”

“Are you intimating what I think you’re intimating?” Alexander’s bravado dropped incrementally. He stepped forward again. “What do you know, sir?”

Putnam did not respond, shutting the logbook and dropping it into a drawer on his desk.

The words prodded at Alexander and left him with a disquieting feeling in his stomach, “Sir…again, with the utmost respect, you understand that the Commander’s mission here is to consolidate forces-- with the goal of strength in numbers. High tempers are to be expected, these are uncomfortable days, and with winter coming I expect frustrations will be at an all time high...but...if you are suggesting what I think you’re suggesting…”

“And what exactly do you think I am suggesting, Colonel?” Putnam stood at full height, crossing his arms, glaring.

“If you are aware of plots and schemes to overthrow or undermine General Washington’s authority, I suggest you report them immediately.”

Alexander could not shake the feeling that Putnam was on the verge of laughing in his face. The older man stayed quiet, forcing Alexander to fill the silence. 

“Are there...mutinous sentiments?”

Putnam leveled Alexander, “I cannot confirm or deny what some of my fellow generals are thinking, only the prevailing low moods. I can tell you that Gates’ performance at Saratoga did not help. I can tell you that promoting unskilled, untested soldiers to ranking officers by virtue of favoritism does not help. And I can tell you that Washington sending aides out to speak on his behalf with authority they have not yet earned does not help, either.”

The curiosity was too great; Alexander ignored the burning words and pressed for more information, “What do you mean, Gates’ performance at Saratoga?”

“I mean the reports that he sent Arnold out and stayed behind with his own troops and took credit for the victory.”

“That’s a false report.” 

“Oh, are you certain?” Putnam shot back. “Does it  _ matter _ , Colonel, if the men hear such a thing and it turns out to be false? Does it matter when it has already shaken the authority of the men connected to it? In-fighting. Favoritism. Outrage. So again, I express to you--blind obedience to this man is not a failsafe.”

“Who is…” Alexander ran a hand through his hair, stumbling over his words, “...why would Gates--that doesn’t make any sense, General.”

Putnam’s answer was swift, “You and I should not be having this conversation. If what I know turns out to be true it will all come to light.”

Alexander felt the anger snap inside him again and his response came rushing out, pointed, “Give me your assurances you will send the brigades and I will keep this between us. Otherwise prepare for a court-martial.”

He watched Putnam struggle with what he’d revealed, eyes narrowing. 

****

Orders and missions seemed to dry up; the men at the Gulph were getting worse.  _ You have the opportunity of turning the men in to real soldiers. Of instilling confidence. Imagine the look on the Commander’s face when you arrive with your expert soldiers, riding in to save his failing men. _

First, it was the cold. Aaron wrapped himself in a torn blanket, picking up an empty rum bottle and tossing it aside, miserably. 

One issue usually begets another, Aaron mused on a different afternoon, watching a fist-fight break out between two men who fought over a single boot. 

He scrawled something desperate and quick.

_ The papers and clothing of the companies which have lately joined Malcolm's regiment are at Bethlem. The papers are now wanted; and several of the officers cannot appear decent until they receive other clothes. For these reasons I would ask your indulgence for leave of absence, for two subalterns, six days. Their presence is not particularly necessary with their companies. _

Aaron sent the letter off, confident that the restless men would be grateful for his petitions on their behalf. 

“Colonel, I tell you, it is not enough to have physical strength,” Aaron replayed a conversation with McDougal in his mind, “That is what these men do not understand. They see  _ you,  _ tiny thing, and wonder aloud at how you withstood the weight of Montgomery--”

A flutter of anxiety hit him in the chest at the memory of Montgomery and Aaron had cut him off as politely as he could.

“Nevertheless. One may be in physicality small, but in strength of mind--a giant.”

“I thank you for the kind words, sir.”

_ What was the point of praise if it didn’t result in change? _

Despite the high opinion McDougal had of him, as the days progressed the men seemed to view Aaron in reverse: a wedge in their plans, a scold, a puffed-up little boy. They glared at him. Aaron wasn’t even able to get all their names. 

Second, Aaron didn’t sleep anymore. 

There was always some reason, some thorn in his side, preventing it. 

There were the false alarms. Bombs are heading our way. The British are riding toward us with sabers to decapitate us. A contingent of the men had camp fever and were on the verge of death. Someone poisoned the horses. And on and on-- by the third week Aaron had become nocturnal, sleeping between the hours of two and five and spending the rest of the time on determined patrol.

“This needs to stop.” His voice, measured words, rang out one morning, breath cutting through the air in puffs of white smoke. Aaron looked each of them in the eye from atop his horse. “You are not only making fools of yourselves, you are making fools of the army at large.”

Several of the men lowered their eyes, perhaps in thought, perhaps in contrition-- Aaron didn’t care. 

“From now on you will not have time to play these stupid fucking games. You will rise at four. You will report to me immediately. You will begin your drilling when I say start and you will stop when I give the command,” Aaron raised his voice, “Sentinels will expect my presence at random intervals throughout the night to make sure they are not asleep-- or off screwing a camp girl--”

Aaron shot a look to one particularly wayward soldier and held it, accusatorily, until the soldier blinked and lowered his gaze. 

The drilling kept the men busy. The sentinels were more alert. The games and pranks stopped. And a slithering energy of discontent and resentment took their place. 

_ Hate me if you want. But you will obey.  _

Aaron looked south from his position atop a small hill, from outside his tent, and imagined he could see the Valley Forge encampment. Briefly wondered what sort of luxuries being on Washington’s staff afforded to those who chose deference.  _ You gave up that option long ago, didn’t you? _

The thought struck something fathomless inside of him. 

A shouting match and the sound of the barrel of a gun being cracked across a man’s head grabbed Aaron’s attention and he quickly ran to see what idiocy had popped up this time.

“He’s a liar, and that’s all there is to it. Next time it’ll be a bullet at your head and not just the barrel,” one of the soldiers, several years younger than Aaron, screamed at a man who lay moaning in the dirt, clutching the side of his head while the blood poured. 

“What is Christ’s name is it this time?” Aaron shouted.

The offending soldier pointed, “Howard is starting ugly rumors. I called him out on it and he threatened to kill me in my sleep.”

From the ground, the man called Howard shouted back, “I never said such a thing!”

_ “You implied it!” _

Aaron bent down to lift Howard from the dirt while a small crowd gathered, “Can someone please take him to get bandaged? I can’t lose any more men because you all can’t control your fucking tempers. Let’s go!” He motioned for one of the onlookers to take Howard.

The injured man was lifted and two of the soldiers helped take him to the infirmary tent while Aaron turned his rage onto the other man, swiping his weapon, “Give me that gun.”

“You should have heard what Howard was saying--”

“--What is your name?”

The offending soldier withered slightly, “Thomas.”

“Get in my tent. Now,” Aaron spat, pointing. Once inside, he spun, facing Thomas, “Just what the hell is going on? I turn my back for five fucking minutes and you’re beating some man senseless.”

“Sir, with respect, that’s not the whole story.”

“Well then tell me what it is,” Aaron walked to his small desk, sitting and looking up. He prepared a quill, ink and paper for a disciplinary note.

Thomas’ eyes watched his movements, and he began, halting, “Sir… I swear-- I was  _ defending  _ the reputation of the army. There was--just a few days ago there was a contingent of Gates’ men travelling through, aides, I think, on their way to Congress, and they...well, I don’t know if they were drunk or not but the things they were saying--”

Aaron interrupted him, “--Gates’ aides came through here? Why was I not informed?”

Thomas shrank, turning pink, “They weren’t...at the camp, exactly...they were a few miles away staying at...well, I...a…”

“...A boarding house?” Aaron offered dryly. “And what in God’s name were you doing at the boarding house?”

Thomas shrank further, implicating himself. He explained, “I’m sorry, sir, truly. It won’t happen again. It was my birthday and there’s this lovely girl named Meg who--”

Aaron held up a hand, “--I don’t need details, for God’s sake. Tell me what Howard accused you of to make you react so violently so that I may write up this report and we can be done with the matter.”

“Gates’ aides were there causing a bit of a scene.”

“Names, please.”

Thomas closed his eyes, remembering, “There was...a New Yorker, I think. Troup, something. And another, very mouthy. Didn’t like his bearing. Wilkinson, Williamson. Something like that. They didn’t seem to be getting along.”

Aaron dropped his quill, stifling a laugh, “I’m sorry-- _ Robert Troup  _ was causing a scene at a brothel?”

“Well, it was more like the other one was causing a scene. Kept ordering drink after drink. Troup seemed to be encouraging him to just go to bed but...Wilkinson, I’m sure that’s his name, said he had important business and was celebrating Gates’ confidence in him.”

“And then what happened?” Aaron sighed. 

“Turns out someone from Stirling’s staff was there too and started spouting off about Saratoga, and Wilkinson got real defensive, said he had Gates’ official report for Congress and that Gates was to be vindicated once Congress saw it and said that he had the trust of men like General Conway to back it up--”

“--Why was Gates sending an aide to Congress and not to Washington first?”

Thomas looked out of his depth, shrugged again while his eyes widened, “Sir, really, I shouldn’t have been there and I’m terribly sorry-- please dont’ write the report-- I’ll do extra drilling--”

Aaron still worked on his first thought and probed the young soldier further, “Thomas-- tell me  _ exactly  _ what Gates’ aides were planning at that tavern. Because it sounds to me as if they were undercutting Washington, with Gates’ blessing. Which is dishonest at best and mutinous at worst.”

Thomas blanched at the word, “Sir, I  _ swear  _ to you, there was no talk of mutiny amongst them.”

“Thomas, I sense you are not being entirely forthright with me.”

Aaron leveled his stare and watched the emotions play out on Thomas’ young face, using the heavy, uncomfortable silence to his advantage while Thomas struggled with his confession. Finally, he put up his hands and closed his eyes, going from white to pink.

“Fine. I have not been fully honest. Some of the men-- there  _ was  _ talk of mutiny. But only in the most abstract way, I swear on my own mother’s life. The word was being...bandied about. I do not know who first brought it up. But Gates’ aides caught wind of our discussion and jumped in and that is when the fray started.”

An ice-cold blade cut through Aaron’s thoughts. He shot the younger soldier a dark look, “Mutiny is a hanging offense, sir.”

“Yes, I know,” Thomas swallowed. 

“If I find there is talk of mutiny amongst any of my men-- any sort of encouragement of it amongst us or any of the other aides you many encounter-- and you  _ knew _ , and did not report it to me--”

“ _ \--Never _ , sir,” Thomas interjected, a little too enthusiastically for it to soothe the chill that crept up inside of Aaron. He reached out and crumpled the beginnings of the report, and Thomas exhaled. 

“Go apologize to Howard, now,” Without looking at Thomas, Aaron jerked his head toward the infirmary tent and sensed the younger soldier’s movement as he stood to leave. He waited a millisecond before speaking again.

“Thomas--” 

The younger soldier turned, and guilt flashed in his eyes while Aaron addressed him. 

“If I catch wind of anymore mutinous rumors there won’t be another warning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't usually add notes to chapters but i'm swooping in to say 1) sorry this chapter is so vague and disorganized and inaccurate but i fully don't understand the revolutionary war idk how yall Turn hoes do it and 2) why is putnam such a messy bitch


	24. Mutiny

The day was bright, cold, and nerve-wracking, but Alexander was  _ used  _ to this feeling. He shielded his eyes from the midday November sun and walked toward the somewhat drab, but imposing, stone house that acted as Gates' headquarters. 

The ride to Albany had been painful, more so than Alexander had anticipated and as he dismounted his horse he pulled a muscle in his leg that he didn’t even know he had, cursing it--  _ you’re getting old, aren’t you?  _ No, he fought back against the thought, twenty-two is hardly more than a child.  _ Don’t be ridiculous, men your age are married with children.  _ Gates won’t see it that way.  _ Not if you approach the matter maturely.  _

On and on his mind ran circles in nervousness, one thought bleeding clumsily into the other.

He stared at his feet, clearing his throat and tightening his scarf. 

“Alex!”

He looked up and his nerves turned to affection, seeing Troup at the front door, beaming. 

“Bobby,” Alexander returned the smile and pulled him into a hug, pain in his throat tightening at the familiar sight of his old friend, “How good it is to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Troup pulled away, smile still affixed to his face. 

“You look well. Healthy. When I heard you’d been captured I feared the worst. Mulligan assured me they treated you alright,” Alexander remarked. He held Troup at arm’s length: his one-time roommate had aged since he’d last seen him. His face was slightly more gaunt, his bearing haunted.

Troup brushed it off, “Oh, it wasn’t so bad. Come in--come in--”

Alexander let his friend usher him into the foyer, past the front rooms and into a back office. The pair were quiet again and Alexander struggled with what to say.  _ He’s still your friend, still the same Bobby.  _ And yet-- the words wouldn’t come. _ Has the gulf grown too large? _ Alexander took a deep, steadying breath, sitting on a wooden chair while Troup prepared two glasses of wine. 

“After the exchange, Gates picked me up,” Troup began the conversation, much to Alexander’s relief, “I didn’t have much say in the matter. If it were left up to me I’d have joined you with Washington.”

The two men grew silent again.

“Bobby… I will admit this visit isn’t just for pleasure.” Alexander stared into his glass. 

“No kidding. You look like you’ve been given the death sentence.” Troup exhaled. “I wasn’t going to say anything but--”

A small bubble of levity formed inside of Alexander, “--You always were honest.”

Troup took another sip, “If you’re here to see Gates, you may be waiting a while. He rode out on some business early this morning and won’t be back until long after midnight, I am sure.”

It hit Alexander at once: the stress of it all-- the weight of being Washington’s proxy and the taunting voice that told him  _ this is what you want, this is what you’ve always wanted, and now you’ve gotten it.  _ He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the bubble popping. 

“I am so ill-equipped for this mission,” Alexander downed the last of his wine and made to pour himself more while Troup raised his eyebrows.

“If Washington thinks you can do it, then that should be good enough, right?” Troup inquired. He lowered his voice, “It’s not as if you’re running off, rogue, like Wilkinson had done. Believe me when I tell you, there are worse positions to be in.”

Alexander paused for a beat, “What about Wilkinson?”

“One of the fellow aides,” Troup lifted a hand, opening up plainly, “Gates had us running to Congress with a message and he dragged me along. I didn’t want to go-- Albany to Philadelphia in less than two weeks? I said he must be out of his stupid head...and of course the whole thing was a debacle from the start. Almost started a brawl in a tavern just outside Valley Forge. The idiot can’t hold his liquor to save his life--”

“--Bobby--”

“--Starts spouting off in front of a couple of Stirling’s aides, Monroe, I think-- absolute dullard, Alex, you should have seen him--”

“--Bobby,” Alexander interrupted, more forcefully, “--What are you talking about? Why was Gates sending you to Congress?”

Troup stopped, brows furrowing, “I told you, Gates had a message. Wilkinson wouldn’t let me read it but assured me it was nothing terrible, just some updates with regards to supplies for barrack building reinforcements here in Albany.”

Alexander held up a hand, “Why would he need reinforcements in Albany for barracks if he is to send his men to Washington for the winter?”

“I…” Troup looked genuinely confused, “...He didn’t...I wasn’t aware that was the plan-- granted, Gates tells his aides different things, frankly, between you and I, I think his age is showing--”

“--Bobby,” Alexander shut his friend up definitively and Troup stopped mid-thought, “What, exactly, is Gates’ plan?”

“Well, I can tell you what he told  _ me.” _

“Yes. Everything,” Alexander pulled out his weather-beaten log book and grabbed a nearby quill, poised, while Troup let his mouth hang open. 

“Alex… is this… I don’t want to be in the middle of something. This feels... what are you writing?”

“I am taking notes.”

Troup stood, putting his glass down,  _ “I don’t want to be implicated.” _

Frustrated, Alexander felt his temper slip and he raised his voice, “Bobby, this is for the safety of the army. This is bigger than yourself, do you understand? This isn’t some idle dorm-room gossip you can lord over me-- I am Washington’s proxy. Men’s lives are at stake. The war itself--”

“--Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot,” Troup cut him off, stung. 

Alexander searched the face of his old friend again.

He swallowed, steading his breath, “I’m sorry, of course not. What I mean to say is that General Washington is fearful of mutinous sentiments rising from dissatisfied, ill-equipped, moneyless soldiers and generals who cultivate that dissatisfaction for their personal gain. The only way forward is to consolidate forces and he cannot do that if every general demands their egos be carefully stroked. It simply is not possible.”

Troup softened and nodded, “That is a true assessment of things. I admit that Gates’ runs his staff so haphazardly that most of us get different stories on different days. First we are told he won Saratoga, then reports come in that it was actually Arnold that carried it, half of us pitted against the other have-- it’s idiotic, is what it is.”

“That is why I need you to tell me, directly, what Gates is planning,” Alexander tried again. 

“And I am telling you, I  _ cannot _ ,” Troup reiterated, almost hopeless, “I can tell you what I know but that does not guarantee it is correct.”

Alexander sighed, putting his head in his hands, “What am I going to report to Washington, then?”

“You could report the disorganization as a flaw in and of itself.”

“He’ll demand more, Bobby,” Alexander looked up, “I  _ can’t  _ fail.”

Troup sat back down, thoughtful for a few quiet seconds. He took another sip, blinking while an idea formed, “You could...well...I suppose it’s not the most ethical thing-- but it appears we’ve moved past that…”

“...What is it?”

Troup paused again, putting a hand to his mouth, “...I have a key to Gates’ personal desk.”

Alexander let his shoulders drop, “Bobby…”

“No, listen. We could be in and out in less than twenty minutes. There’s no one else here,” Troup added, a sudden righteousness on his features, “If Wilkinson is allowed to have confidential Congressional information then why not I? Why not us?”

The ripple of nerves kicked back in, and Alexander examined the plan from all angles, “My bodyguard, Gibbs, is with me. He is out looking for lodgings for us this evening but he could come back any minute.”

“Well then we’d better act fast,” Troup’s round face split into a grin. He stood again and motioned for Alexander to follow him, and Alexander had no choice but to go. 

Troup was all excitement and business, leading Alexander down a short, narrow hallway and into a larger office. He stopped once inside, looking around intently. Alexander mimicked him. 

“This is Gates’ office?”

“It is,” Troup headed toward a book shelf and began shuffling through it, “I know he keeps his desk key here, somewhere.” Upon opening a fifth book, Troup’s expression brightened and he pulled out the hidden key, handing it to Alexander. 

With jittery hands, Alexander took it and headed toward the desk while Troup stood at the door, alternating his gaze between the window and the hallway. 

“There’s a lot here. Where does he keep his general orders?”

“Bottom left,” Troup answered from the doorway. 

Alexander rifled through the stacks of paper, kneeling down low, lifting one after the other in quick observance for key words as he’d done so many times before with the long-winded letters meant for Washington, before slicing them down to their salient points. He sighed, agitated, “There’s nothing but illegible scrawl-- wait--”

He lifted a thin stack, addressed to Putnam, and the familiar name caught Alexander’s eye. 

“Bobby-- I think I found it--”

“Are you going to make copies?” Troup forgot his lookout plan and walked over. 

“No time,” Alexander read the letters quickly, making sure he was sure of what he was seeing. His heart sank, “...Bobby… this is…”

“What do they say?”

“He has no plans to comply with Washington’s orders. Neither does Putnam,” Alexander hissed, his face heating. He shifted from sheet to sheet, one after another, saying the same thing over and over again. The verdict plain and evil: they were in open revolt. Alexander tossed them back into the drawer as though it burned him. 

He slammed the drawer shut and fell back into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes again, “They lied. Pure and simple.”

Troup stood above him, unsure how to respond. 

“This confounds my mission tenfold,” Alexander looked up, head leaning back against the wall, resisting the urge to slam it over and over. 

Troup held out a hand and lifted him from the floor, “Come on. Get up. I would say this makes your mission easier-- now that you know his true agenda. You have leverage.”

“Christ, I look like such an _ idiot,”  _ Alexander shouted, slamming a fist into the bookshelf and toppling some loose candles. 

Troup wordlessly bent down, picking them up.

“I spoke with Putnam last week and he assured me he was sending a regiment under Burr--”

“--That much is true,” Troup replied, off-hand, while he situated the candles. 

Alexander turned, “What? How do you know?”

“Aaron and I have taken up correspondence. Matt came through a few weeks ago on his way south and handed me some letters. He’s stationed just outside of Valley Forge, now, on Putnam’s orders.” Troup motioned toward the door, “We should probably get out now. Lock up the desk.”

“Why are you corresponding with Burr?” Alexander followed the other man. 

Troup shrugged, “He’s a bit lonely, I think.”

“Does he…” Alexander caught up to Troup and stepped in front of him, speaking in one breath, “...Does he have any information about what Putnam is planning?”

Troup made a face, “Alex, what on earth?”

“Burr is one of Putnam’s closest officers. You’re corresponding with Burr. He must have said something.”

Troup opened and closed his mouth intermittently, searching for words, “I...he might have...but it’s mostly personal and friendly, not...troop movements, or whatever espionage plot you seem to be angling after.”

Alexander shook his head, unconvinced, “Try to remember if he said something.”

_ “Alex…”  _ Troup practically rolled his eyes, “You searched Gates’ papers with your own hand. I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing  _ what?” _

Another leveling, knowing glare from his old roommate, and Alexander felt exposed. He responded, “Just tell me what Burr said.”

“It was just pleasantries. How his regiment is improving. Idle talk about future careers when the war is over. He spoke about…” Troup pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering, “...He did mention Gates and how everyone celebrated him as a hero. There was talk of a day in thanksgiving, in his honor. He may have mentioned gold medals--”

“--Jesus Christ,” Alexander spat, “Is there no end to his baseless sense of pride? He encourages the discord.”

“Burr mentioned people comparing him and Washington, in less than stellar words,” Troup admitted, corners of his mouth twitching. 

_ “I knew it.” _

“Alexander, don’t go flying off the handle.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Gibbs stepped in, “Colonel Hamilton-- I have your quarters prepared at the inn in town. Were you able to speak to General Gates?”

Alexander sighed, “Not today. He wasn’t in. It looks like we may be delayed until he gets back.”

“He’ll be back tonight, I’m sure of it,” Troup added helpfully.

Alexander lay awake that night running over his speech in his head.  _ Washington needs your two brigades. There is no room for argument.  _ He inhaled, closed his eyes, prepared to be inflexible and tried to prepare himself for Gates’ inevitable pushback and the delicate line he’d have to walk. He felt like he was preparing for an exam.

Alexander realized he’d been tensing his muscles and his shoulders began to ache again. The frustration at not being able to sleep compounded his anxieties into a vicious cycle. 

He woke the next morning unrested, watching the ceiling turn from black to pale blue. 

He ate his breakfast slowly while Gibbs made small talk. 

The minutes ticked by in, painful leaden steps, while Alexander paced outside Gates’ office, waiting to be called in.  _ You’ve been here before, Little Hamilton.  _

Gates called for him, and Alexander stepped inside. 

Without looking up from his desk, the older man spoke. 

“I suppose we both know why you’re here.”

Alexander felt his lips go dry, “Yes. I am here on behalf of General Washington, and--”

“--Let me just save you your breath, Colonel,” Gates looked up and put his pen down, “I do not envy the position that man has put you in. It is unfair of him to make his underlings do his dirty work but I suppose that is a privilege which comes with age and experience.”

“This does not have to be difficult, General,” Alexander responded without thinking. “All he’s asking for is that you allow your two brigades to travel south so that he may work to consolidate the forces for the winter.”

Gates’ demeanor darkened, “And I said, that’s not going to happen.”

“I am certain your stubbornness comes from your own beliefs in what is best for the troops and not from your own pride.”

“My stubbornness comes from having intel that you are not privy to,” Gates shot back. 

Alexander shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking, “What is the intel? Perhaps I can inform General Washington and we can all be on the same page.”

The older man stared at him, expression unfathomable. 

Alexander steadied his nerves again and set his bag on a nearby side table, reaching in for a quill and paper. He grabbed a stool and situated it beneath the table, sitting down and poised to write, “I await your instruction for Washington, sir.”

“You are unbelievable,” Gates said loudly, standing abruptly.

Immediately, Alexander regretted his words and he spoke quickly, “Sir, you are correct. I am just an officer. You must understand the position I am in, as you say, is a difficult one and I am at your mercy. The inconvenience of acting diametrically opposed to a gentleman such as yourself causes me great pain-- please understand. I understand you have the confidence of most of New England?”

This seemed to work on the older man, and Gates sat back down, mollified, “...Yes. I do. Which is why I find it insulting that your boss is trying to undercut my authority. Did he hear the reports from Saratoga?”

Alexander bit the inside of his cheek, “He did. Many men were brave that day.”

Gates narrowed his eyes, “You may tell your general that compliance with his request is not entirely up to me. I have New England’s wishes to look out for, and they are in stark contrast to Washington’s. You see the difficulty here.”

“One man is in charge of the army-- not a mob of states and men who have never seen combat,” Alexander replied. Then, “Do you not view it as an insult that men in Congress would dictate troop movements?”

“And if I anger those men there will be no troops to move. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Alexander exhaled; a long, deep breath while he finally broke eye contact from the man in front of him. He wanted to scream at him-- take him by the neck and shake him for being so obtuse. The arrogance and bravado filled the small office until Alexander felt like he couldn't take it and instead focused on a pretty view outside of the window behind Gates’ desk, the one in which not twenty-four hours previous he’d rifled through, discovering all of Gates’ secrets.

“Are you listening to me, Colonel?” Gates’ voice snapped him back to the present. 

“Yes. I will tell you what I’m hearing, sir,” Alexander locked eyes with him, “I am hearing that you will leverage your popularity in New England in order to do what you want, regardless of orders. I am hearing that if you do not get your way you will uncut Washington at every turn and I am hearing that these facts might lead to mutiny.”

To Alexander’s surprise, Gates did not respond, and his expression stayed the same. He stared, cold, at Alexander, for several seconds, as if divining the younger officer’s thoughts and Alexander resisted the urge to look away. Finally, Gates spoke. 

“Does Washington even know you’re here?”

Alexander pursed his lips, “I have been sent here on official business.”

“That does not answer my question,” Gates replied, darker. 

Alexander’s heart began to race again, inconveniently, “Sir, I am just asking for your simple assurance that you will heed Washington’s--”

“--You have no bargaining position, here, Hamilton,” Gates raised his voice, cutting him off. Several officers from the general’s staff stopped their low conversations down the hall, peering in curiously while Gates continued, “What do I do if the British decide to come up the Hudson and raid my arsenals? What do I do if the roads are yet too muddy, and I cannot even move the brigades one mile with my horses breaking their legs pulling the artillery? What do I do with a weakened force, trying to retake the cities that he, through his own incompetence, lost--”

“--One brigade, then,” Alexander held firm, looking up. “The scenarios you have described are not reality, they are ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’. I could just as easily reverse your arguments in my favor.”

Gates’ narrowed his eyes and another block of silence fell between them while weighed the argument. Alexander waited, feeling the pain creep up in his throat and behind his temples; every intake of breath stung. 

After a beat, the older man conceded, flatly. 

“Very well, Colonel Hamilton. One brigade,” Gates said with a tiny sneer, “Go ahead and write your report to your boss. Tell him what a good boy you’ve been.”

Alexander ignored the dig, ignored the embarrassed warmth spreading across his face while he silently made note of Gates’ words.

“General Gates, sir,” Troup stuck his head into the room, slicing through the tension, “I apologize for the interruption. You are needed out front.”

“Sign this first, sir, if you please,” Alexander mustered enough courage to hand Gates his notes, who took them and scrawled his signature on it rapidly, before exiting the room without a look back. 

Alexander exhaled loudly, dropping back onto the stool, the folded notes fluttering in his movement. Troup walked over to him, closing the door quietly. 

“...Well?”

“Went about as bad as I thought it would,” Alexander rubbed his eyes, “But at least he conceded something. Now I just have to make sure Washington approves of it.”

Troup leaned against the bookshelf, nodding, “He has no good reason for keeping the troops here. It makes no sense, save for preserving the appearance of his own authority.”

The tiny doubt nagged at Alexander, “I know. Something tells me he’s bluffing. I just don’t have a good feeling about it. I find him dishonest.”

Alexander stood and hitched his bag up, and continued, “I need to stay at someplace that isn’t a rotted, stinking inn. Please tell me you know of some kind families in the area that would take pity on a suffering soldier for a few nights.”

Troup put his hand on Alexander's shoulder, “I’ll give you a list of  _ sympathetic  _ men. It will be alright, Alex. You’ve done the best you could.”

The reassurance left Alexander cold.

****

News rippled through the regiment about the fight between the two soldiers. Howard, the injured one, insisted on keeping his head bandaged longer than was entirely necessary, as if to make a point. Aaron was too tired to push it-- it reminded him of his younger cousins throwing a fit when they didn’t get their way. _ What is the bloody point in arguing with children?  _ Thomas, the instigator, seemed to perceive the situation oppositely; greeting Aaron every morning, bright and cheerful, trying to prove his loyalty and friendship. Aaron couldn’t decide which was worse. 

On a frosty Wednesday morning, Thomas stood outside Aaron’s tent with a steaming cup of something Aaron couldn’t place, waiting excitedly. 

“What...is this?” Aaron asked, accepting the mug against his better judgement.

“Tea. It is a recipe myself and some of the men have come up with. Learned from the Natives in the area,” Thomas beamed. 

Aaron took a sip and nearly spat it back out, but pushed through the nausea politely, “What’s in it?”

“Grass.” 

“Thank you, Thomas, but this is really not necessary. I am not partial to tea,” Aaron lied, delicately, handing him back the cup and swallowing the foul aftertaste. Thomas nodded intently, as if taking mental notes. Aaron sighed and watched him disappear back into the rows of tents. 

During the daily drills Thomas was the most attentive pupil-- practicing volley fire, marching pace, bayonet proficiency-- a marked improvement than how he’d been not a week before, Aaron noticed. 

Thomas even attempted, at one point, to instruct some of the wayward men himself, on Aaron’s behalf, and was laughed at. 

“Thomas,” Aaron pulled him aside, politely, “That’s really not necessary.”

“They’re doing it wrong.”

“While I appreciate the effort, the men aren’t going to learn if you keep hovering. They must fail first, and then learn. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The younger soldier shook his head with the same intent expression, and wandered back to the crowd. 

It did feel good, Aaron thought late one night, having at least one of them on his side. Leniency had worked and made him a friend. He fell asleep to the thought that he was making headway, and that the upcoming winter in Valley Forge would be a place to show off his skill as a leader and perhaps put Washington’s doubts to bed once and for all. 

_ Wouldn’t that be something.  _

He’d been a sleep for no more than an hour, chill stinging his nose and cheeks as his fire died, when he was shaken awake by Thomas, whose eyes widened fearfully when Aaron instinctively reached under his pillow for his gun. 

“Wait! Sir!” Thomas put his hands up, and whispered hurriedly, “I mean no harm!”

“What are you doing in my tent? Why did you sneak up on me while I was asleep?” Aaron whispered back, angrily. He held the gun aloft at the terrified soldier.

“Sir, please-- I need to speak with you, for just a moment--”

Aaron lowered his musket slowly, “Thomas...can it not wait? This is inappropriate.”

Thomas swallowed, shutting the tent flap and coming closer, “Sir, truly, I mean no disrespect and I wouldn’t come upon you like this if I didn’t think it completely necessary. If I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t live with myself. You’ve been so kind to me--”

“--Thomas,” Aaron sighed, exasperated, setting his gun aside, “ _ Please _ get on with it.”

“I do not want to cause alarm, sir, but I have overheard some troubling things,” Thomas looked around, “There was… I think...talk of mutiny.”

The word took less than a second to sink in. A cold wave of fury washed over Aaron, “-- _ Mutiny _ ?”

“The men...they- they have been talking about it for days now. They said they wanted to wait to act during the next full moon, and though I cannot be certain I think that may be tonight. I couldn’t, in good conscience, sit by and say nothing--” Thomas began rambling nervously while Aaron stood and dressed, fingers shaking.

Thomas went on, “You mustn’t tell the others I’ve been here--they’ll beat me, they’re cruel--”

Aaron put a finger to his lips, and the boy quieted. He picked up his gun again, and walked to the younger soldier, “How certain are you of this?”

“The men are fed up with the strictness. It started with some idle threats, and then the plan became more solidified. I tried to dissuade them but they wouldn’t listen. I fear the worst now.”

Aaron inhaled sharply, hissing. He searched his tent and then closed his eyes, rubbed them, thinking. After a few seconds, he made his decision. 

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, of course, Colonel.”

Aaron walked over to the opening of his tent, stuck his head out, looked right and left, and came back in. Thomas’ eyes grew wide and fearful again. Aaron addressed him, “Draw out the cartridges from every gun in the artillery, I do not want a single loaded musket in this camp, save for mine. Do you understand?”

The young soldier looked at him dumbly, and Aaron lost his patience, “Will there be a mutiny or not? Am I to fear for my life, or are you making up stories for a game?”

“No, sir! Colonel! I swear on it, I heard them planning it yesterday evening!”

“Then move!” Aaron shoved him out of the tent. He looked around, and spotted a saber. 

_ You have a choice, here.  _

Aaron supposed he grabbed it to prevent it being taken up by one of the prospective mutineers. At least that is what he told himself, marching out into the darkness and ignoring the chill that soaked through his clothes. _   
_ _   
_ He ordered a detachment to be formed, raising his voice discordantly in the middle of the night, the soldiers groggily stumbling out of their tents, cursing his name. Their figures cast strange shadows in the brilliant silver light of the full moon. Aaron glared at them as they moved, marching along the line, giving each man his full attention.

_ Look into their eyes-- _ Aaron tried to catch the gaze of each one of them and define it-- some, confused. Some, irritated. Others, defiant. He absentmindedly touched the saber hanging at his side, hitting his left leg with a cold beat with every step he took. Thomas shrank into the line, staring at the dirt. 

“Why are we being called to formation like this? Sir.” A man’s voice called out, stark and confrontational. 

Aaron turned on him, “Because I said so, that’s why.”

A low grumble rippled through the line, and the man pressed further, “It seems inane to me.”

The dirt and gravel crunched beneath his boots as Aaron made his way to the hostile soldier, “Excuse me? What did you say?”

The soldier stared ahead and Aaron watched his color deepen, the pulse at his neck speed up; watched the words and thoughts travel across his face and out his mouth, “I said, it is ludicrous to drill us in the middle of the night. It demonstrates poor leadership.”

Aaron gripped the blade at his side even tighter, “ _ You _ do not get to make that call. You are a solider, you follow orders.”

He stepped back and regarded the men one last time, his gaze landing on Thomas who looked petrified, eyes widened as if to warn him.

Then, ringing out into the frigid night air, breath like white wisps in the darkness, the soldier called out, “What are you waiting for, men? Fire at him!”

The coiled energy that had been dulled through months’ of drudgery sprang into action and before Aaron could think, he removed the saber from its sheath with a slice. He saw the man’s gaping mouth, saw him raise his empty musket, and brought the blade down against his arm, cursing.

The blade caught in his bone; the mutinous soldier screamed, and his cries echoed off the trees. 

Colors around Aaron muted; blacks and blues, and whites and reds—his puffs of labored breaths and the pouring blood. He yanked the saber back using his weight, almost stumbling, while the blood continued to spill from the soldier’s arm that hung at a wrong angle, loose and grotesque. The soldier collapsed into a silent, heaving heap and Aaron stared at him, warmth seeping through a hole in his boot. He looked down to see more blood dripping from the blade, hitting his foot.

The troops stood in stunned silence. Thomas put a hand to his mouth to stifle a cry. Aaron dropped the saber, hyperventilating, and looked into the eyes of his men; an unrecognizable figure reflected back. 

****

As Troup promised, he’d delivered to Alexander the names of hospitable men in the area and for the first time in weeks, Alexander was able to get a good night’s sleep. He came to the Pastures late, past midnight, being greeted quietly by an older servant who took his hat and coat.

“Good evening. You must be Colonel Hamilton,” the man remarked, ushering him into the foyer and out of the wind, “General Schuyler received word you would be staying. How was your journey?”

“Would you like the honest truth?” Alexander sighed, and the servant looked taken aback by his casualness. 

“I...well, honest, I suppose.”

“What is your name?”

“George, sir.”

Alexander nodded to himself, too exhausted for convention, “Well, George. It’s been hellish. My muscles ache. I am grateful that the master of the house has allowed me some repose but I don’t know if there are enough beds and warm bowls of soup in the world to make up for the week I’ve had. Where is your...privy?”

George raised his eyebrow and pointed, and Alexander disappeared. 

He wandered through the dark, empty house, up the stairs, being led by George, unable to fully grasp the beauty of it. George addressed him in a low voice. 

“I am head of the servants in the household. There are five of us. In the morning, you will be greeted by Ben, who will bring you your breakfast and a fresh change of clothes at seven, sharp--”

“--Oh, I don’t need that. I am perfectly capable,” Alexander interrupted as they reached his room. 

George looked taken aback again, “Sir?”

“I can wake myself up. I never sleep later than six, anyway.”

“Sir, things are done a certain way here. General Schuyler has rules and we must abide by them,” George explained, delicately. 

Alexander nodded tiredly, realizing, “Yes. Of course. Then in that case you may proceed with your duty.”

He motioned for George to give him the candle, and he lifted it, looking around the room. He indicated to the fireplace, “May I have a fire?”

George bowed his head slightly, turning, leaving Alexander alone for a moment. 

The room was decadent, better than anything he’d been in for years-- _ better than anything you’ve been in, ever.  _ He walked over to a loose curtain, touching it and marveling briefly at the intricate pattern and velvet softness of it. The bed, made up with a mound of well-stuffed pillows and a thick blanket; the attention to detail made his heart ache. The frank realization that the comfort of his stay with General Schuyler would only heighten this miserable winter awaiting him at Valley Forge.

_ If only you could stay here forever.  _

“Sir, wood for you,” George muttered, walking back into the room. Alexander grabbed some of the kindling as he struggled with it. 

“I can take it from here, George. Thank you.”

“Really, sir, I must insist--”

“George--” Alexander cut him off, “--I mean no disrespect, but I would prefer to be alone tonight, if you don’t mind. You are... discharged of your duties, I suppose,” he added helpfully.

The fire was roaring in a few minutes, and Alexander sat on the floor in front of it.

He stared at the flames, letting them heat his face, burn his cheeks, ruminating on his meetings and the frantic pace the past few weeks of his life had taken. A clock in a room beneath him chimed two, and Alexander yawned. He pulled his knees to his chest and put his head down.

_ What are you doing, Little Hamilton? _

It came to him again: the feeling of hitting a wall, of catching his breath, in that small, quiet moment. He lifted his head and stretched out, back flat against the plush rug beneath him. He stared at the design on the ceiling; eyes following the pale lines of the trim in the dim ochre light. 

_ What have you done? _

Alexander drifted, falling asleep on his back with his elbow over his eyes.

His mind caught up with him, trying to make sense of everything he’d been through. Dreams came to him, wild and disquieting; Washington’s face, disappointed, averting his gaze while Alexander stood on a beach, watching him drift away silently in a boat. He called out and the older man ignored him and his voice disappeared as though he were being choked. Hands wrapped around his neck and the ocean churned at his feet, soaking him through. The rhythmic pounding turned him to the side, suddenly face to face with a set of probing dark eyes, shimmering in a vaguely familiar face, arresting him where he stood. The wave crashed again, hard against him, filling his mouth and dragging him under.

“Sir...Colonel Hamilton...sir…!” 

Alexander felt himself jostled awake against the floor and his eyes sprung open, landing on the slave he assumed was Ben.

“Colonel Hamilton…?”

“Yes...yes, I’m awake. Apologies,” Alexander sat up, disoriented. Immediately, he was hit with a surge of pain across his head, wavering as he stood, “...I need… can you bring me some water, please?”

“Yes, sir. I have fresh clothes for you here,” Ben motioned toward the bed, and Alexander followed his arm, sitting on the edge and putting his face in his hands.

“I’m feverish, I think,” he managed.

“Yes, sir. I will let the General know--”

“--No,” Alexander panicked, looking up, throat hoarse, “No. Do not trouble him with it. If he has plans to speak to me I will push through. Just water for now, please. Tell General Schuyler that I will be down to see him presently.”

Ben eyed him, skeptical, “Are you sure that is wise, Colonel?”

Alexander nodded yes, silently, preserving his voice. Ben left, and he dressed as quickly as he could with shaking hands. 

A light, almost timid knock at the door caused his fingers to fail and he swore under his breath, “Just leave the water outside, if you will, Ben. Thank you.”

The answer: a soft female voice, “Colonel Hamilton… I’m terribly sorry to bother you… I’ve been sent up by my father--”

“-- Just a moment, if you will--” Alexander exhaled again, stepping in front of the mirror to straighten his necktie and flatten his hair, which, he realized sadly, stood up awkwardly from having laid on the floor all night at an odd angle. He made his way to the door and opened it, coming face to face with a woman some years younger than him, smiling politely with a glass of water. 

“Good morning, Colonel. I apologize for the intrusion. My father sent me up to let you know he’s running a bit late but he would like to have breakfast with you at nine.”

Alexander took the glass, “It is no matter. I am running behind myself. Thank you--”

“--Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth,” he smiled at her, and turned back to his pile of clothes, indicating toward them, “Should I just leave those there? I’m sorry, it’s been so long since I have been the guest in such a fine house, my manners--”

Elizabeth walked over to the pile, collecting them, “I will take them down to be washed. Do not be troubled by your manners, they’re fine. Thank you for making the bed.”

“I…actually slept on the floor. Save your praise.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Elizabeth furrowed her brows, and it was then that Alexander noticed her eyes, rapid and black, and he forgot his words. 

“Are you well, Colonel?” Elizabeth reiterated, blinking, “You’re really quite pale. We have a family doctor I can call, it’s no trouble at all.”

Alexander cleared his throat painfully, “No. I’m sorry. I am fine. The floor is… I don’t know why I prefer it. Closer to the fire, I suppose,” he concluded with a small smile. 

Elizabeth gave him a brief nod, and left the room, and Alexander watched her leave.

Breakfast was served at precisely nine, just as Alexander had been told. 

He made his way to the dining room and General Schuyler stood to greet him, shaking his hand and indicating he sit. 

“I hope your night was comfortable,” the older man said, shaking out a napkin, “Really, if there is anything myself or the servants can do, please, let me know. A friend to Washington is a friend to me.”

Alexander took a sip of the black coffee, the taste and after-effect of it warming him and making him feel more alive than he’d felt in weeks, “That is kind, sir. Thank you.”

“Apologies for my lack of family, this morning. My wife has taken my girls for a morning walk. Usually they dine with me,” Schuyler admitted, smiling, “I was hoping to introduce you to them but you’ll have to settle for just me.”

“Really, General Schuyler, it is fine,” Alexander smiled, taking a bite of toast.

“I suppose I should admit that I was desirous of you staying here for a selfish reason, really,” the older man went on, “Your name is on everyone’s tongue and I thought to myself, how is it that this young man is able to be everywhere at once-- is so indispensable to the Commander? I was curious to see him,” Schuyler went on, “Between you and I, the way you handled Gates tickled me.”

Alexander swallowed, looking into his plate, “...Our conversation did not go how I had hoped it would.”

“Well,” Schuyler chewed thoughtfully, “Gates will no doubt take offense that Washington sent an aide. He’ll see it as an insult. And with Putnam on his side, now--”

“--I know,” Alexander interrupted the older man before he could stop himself. 

Schuyler looked at him, somewhat amused, “Putnam plans on keeping most of his men right where they are. Some of the generals seem to view winter under Washington as a death sentence. I tell you, I disagree strongly-- but you know it is like speaking to a wall, at times.”

Alexander finished his piece of bread in another quick bite, “Who do I… I mean, if I were to write a letter--”

“--Oh, dear. I don’t know if that is advisable, Colonel,” Schuyler said. “You’ve already made a name for yourself in New England. I fear angering them even more. There is already talk of recalling Putnam.”  


"I mean, are there other men of influence who would be receptive to Washington?"

Schuyler thought for a moment, "There is Governor Clinton, I suppose. You may call on him if you're feeling up to it. He may have some news for you, but with winter on the way I fear letters are travelling much slower..."

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, and Schuyler looked up in surprise, “Elizabeth? What are you still doing here?”

Alexander stood, nodding politely at her. 

“Apologies, father-- I wasn’t feeling up to the walk this morning.”

“Have you met Colonel Hamilton?”

Elizabeth gave another polite smile, nervous, “We have met, yes. Greetings again, Colonel. I came to let you know your clothes have been washed and are hanging in the cellar, drying in front of the fire. In case you were wondering.”

“Oh, that’s… thank you, Elizabeth. I appreciate it,” Alexander replied. “I will be down to collect them after breakfast, if that’s alright with you.”

Elizabeth nodded again, looking as though she had more to say. 

“Is that all, my dear?” Schuyler asked, taking his seat again. 

The young woman turned slightly pink, fidgeting with her hands, and bracelet on her right wrist, “I’m afraid...I...there was... I forgot to inform the servants to clear out the pockets and I think one of your letters was destroyed, Colonel Hamilton. I really very sorry, and so embarrassed--”

Schuyler closed his eyes, “...Elizabeth...:”

Alexander cut in, taking pity on the nervous woman, heart rate increasing. He offered her a smile, “Oh, that’s not a problem. Please, Miss Schuyler, think nothing of it, really. I have copies of them all. I should have cleaned my pockets out, first, anyway.”

Elizabeth exhaled, averting her eyes, accepting Alexander’s response.

“Don’t tell me that’s why you missed out on the walk with your mother,” Alexander asked, leaning against the chair on one hand, “Really, if that’s the case perhaps I should be apologizing to you.”

She shook her head, no, briefly and quickly, while her father was distracted with the newspaper. Alexander’s eyes darted from Elizabeth to her father, mouth open in a silent  _ ah.  _

Schuyler shook out the newspaper and looked up over his glasses, “Do you need Elizabeth to show you where the cellar is? Elizabeth, please--”

“Yes, of course,” she answered quickly, “Follow me, if you please.”

Alexander complied, catching up to her down an adjacent hallway, filling the awkward silence with polite chatter.

“Beautiful house you have. The breakfast was delicious, too. If you’re still embarrassed about the letter, please, don’t be. Guaranteed I would have reread it and been embarrassed by it and destroyed it myself, only to write a brand-new one. I cannot even tell you how many rough-drafts I’ve written in the past few weeks. Just the most horrendous spelling errors, too,” Alexander continued, following Elizabeth down a set of wooden stairs into a warm, dimly lit room with a small fire in the corner, in front of which were his hanging clothes. 

“These look great, thank you again,” Alexander reiterated, mouth suddenly dry. 

Elizabeth stood and watched him gather them, playing with her bracelet. 

Another few seconds’ of silence passed between them. 

Above them, the sound of the front door opening and closing interrupted them, and Elizabeth blinked, turning white, “Oh dear. That will be my mother. Just...I have to go.” She spoke quickly, hitching up her skirts and heading back up the stairs before Alexander could respond. 

Alexander looked around and talked to himself, confused, “Should I...greet them...or…?”

He folding the clothes into a neat pile and tucked them under his arm, making his way back up the stairs to meet the rest of the family. 

****

Aaron’s regiment--silent, resentful, and obedient-- joined the army at Whitemarsh. They dispersed, blending indiscriminately with the rest of the continentals, no doubt still grumbling about their colonel’s violent display of power to anyone who would listen. Aaron kept to himself, happy to be rid of the responsibility if only for a few weeks. Winter quarters at Valley Forge loomed, and with it, the reality that he’d have to face Washington again.  _ And? What can he tell you now? _

Valley Forge was as bleak as Aaron thought it would be, beset by a neglectful Congress _ \-- sent running by Hamilton-- pestered by Hamilton-- chastised by Hamilton-- _

Aaron would be lying to himself if he said the name hadn’t been on the tip of his tongue for months. He leaned against a shoddy hut, bracing himself against a gust of wind. Smiled to himself at the vision of his little friend directing men twice his age with breath-taking bravado, trying to marry it to the image of the same man in his tent, organizing his artillery, pressed against a wooden pole with dilated pupils. 

How easy it was to torture him. Aaron let out a quick laugh. 

November dragged, and Hamilton did not show. He was not at Washington’s side for his daily general orders, and he was not in any of the rows of semi-constructed wooden shacks. _ On a mission for the Commander, no doubt. I will hear all about it when he returns and sees me, whether I want to or not.  _

Aaron grew anxious when the meeting he expected with Washington never came. He prepared himself to speak with the commander himself after a restless, frigid night in a shared bed with a stranger.

The dull, blank stare of Washington withered Burr where he stood, reflecting the grey winter sky.

“Sir, if you will permit me,” Aaron straightened his back, keeping his gaze locked, “I would like to propose a recruitment mission to you.”

Washington sighed, pursing his thin mouth. “I have heard rumors of such a mission. I can see the validity. However I must say that some others have beat you to it.”

“I think I should be the one to lead the mission,” Aaron said, lifting his chin slightly, “I am personally acquainted with many of the inhabitants of Staten Island--”

A cleared throat from the corner of the room, and Aaron locked eyes with one of Washington’s aides, who eyed him up and down curiously. 

Not shaken, Aaron continued speaking to the commander: “I am personally well acquainted,  _ friendly,  _ with many of the inhabitants, and I do strongly believe they would join me as volunteers. If you would, sir, I propose an expedition in order to recruit more men, which we are in desperate need of.”

Washington stared at him for a moment, then looked back down at his paper, “You do not know enough men for an entire regiment. Not for this purpose, anyway.”

“I would need roughly two-hundred of my own men to start with, which is but a  _ fraction  _ of what other Captains have--”

Washington looked at him again, and shook his head. “I cannot grant you this request, Colonel Burr. We simply do not have the resources. You must understand this. I cannot grant you this wish even if I wanted to. Blankets, shoes, provisions, more huts,  _ these  _ are the things we need. Please command your men to continue with the building.”

_ And why is that? Is it because your golden boy went mouthing off to the wrong people? _

But Aaron held his tongue, and his vitriol, when Lord Sterling was given that exact opportunity at Staten Island, and was wildly unsuccessful. Aaron gradually came to understand it all in painful relief. He laughed bitterly to himself inside his hut as the sun set at four-thirty, an old wound from Quebec causing him to wince, and quiet.    
  
He was either being watched like a hawk, or ignored, and Aaron didn’t know which reality was worse.

November pressed in on the camp with a bright, deathly blanket of snow and the sounds of camp-sickness rustled Aaron from another loose night of sleep. He woke in the draft hut to see his bunk-mate retching into a bucket and he fled, looking for a doctor. 

It was no use-- the fever spread too quickly and the faces of the haggard men around Aaron told him all he needed to know.

The morning orders were delayed. The coroner brushed past him wordlessly, smock stained in blood and vomit. In the next minute, a cacophony of voices from Washington’s own headquarters. 

“Excuse me-- you-- you’re Colonel Burr?”

Aaron turned and stepped back, a tall, handsome officer coming toward him, “I am. Can I be of service? I woke this morning to a commotion--”

“--Yes, I know,” the office shook his head, pulling out a sheet of paper and quill, taking note, “Your bunk mate, Clark, was sick this morning, correct?”

“He was.”

“And yourself?” The officers scrawled quickly. 

“I am feeling quite well,” Aaron answer, watching him, “Is Washington...is the general trying to get a count? I can check in on some of the others, and provide numbers, if that would be of any help.”

The officer looked at him, relieved, “Oh, would you? I fear I am in over my head. With Hamilton gone we’re understaffed-- I didn’t think we’d feel it so heavily but half the men woke this morning feeling ill which is making things even worse-- I’m about to lose my mind, here--”

“--Of course,” Aaron took a blank page from him, “So sorry, I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

“Laurens, thank you. Please, start at the south end, there. Take note of everything you see and how many men seem...unfit for battle. Do not raise any alarms. Try and keep their spirits up, if you can.”

Aaron nodded and was off.

It took only an hour to complete the depressing tally: out of one hundred men, almost forty were unfit for active duty, and Aaron read the number over and over again to himself, upset at the reality of it and frustrated that leadership was too inept to do anything. He came upon Washington’s hut and heard loud voices from within, one he recognized as the officer, Laurens, he’d only just met. 

“...General, I must insist that you let one of us handle it. You mustn’t let the childish rumors anger you…”

Washington’s response: measured, cold, and furious; the fluttering of paper as he shook it out to quote it, “This, Colonel Laurens, cannot go unaddressed. ‘In a letter to General Gates, General Conway says,  _ Heaven has been determined to save your country, or a weak general and bad counsellors would have ruined it. _ He has not only insulted me-- but you, your fellow officers, the army itself. General Conway is in open rebellion. We must act immediately.”

The voices of more officers blended together in their replies and Aaron forgot that he was standing just outside the door, in their line of sight. He stepped back just a second too late and heard his name.

“Colonel Burr!” It was Laurens, voice bright and friendly, “Do you have the tally of the sick?”

“I do. I apologize for interrupting. I thought this was urgent.” Aaron pulled the folded report from his pocket, and handed it to Washington, “I am sorry to say that around forty percent of the men I spoke with are, or have been, ill, and may not be able to fight.”

For the first time, Washington looked  _ old _ , Aaron noticed, seated at the scratched desk covered in maps and letters. He scanned them quickly, looking for the insult he’d mentioned minutes before. The Commander let out a long, low sigh.

“This is dark news. Thank you, Colonel. You are dismissed.”

Aaron decided not to press it; gave the officers around him a swift nod and left.

The thought meandered through his mind, about what Putnam said, what he’d inferred--  _ if you knew, and didn’t say anything, and the Commander found out-- _

No. I was not a part of this. 

_ It is mutiny, is it not?  _

Aaron made it back to his hut, now empty of his bunk-mate, and sat on his cot. The memories of an ice-cold night, a swift blade, a man’s screaming cry bursting through the dark air in white puffs of breath. He wondered what it would be like if it were Washington in his position. If he’d be as ruthless as Aaron had been-- or if he’d be merciful. Again, Aaron inhaled deeply, turning his neck back and forth to stretch out the kinks, he wasn’t sure what would be worse. 

_ There may come a day when you need to pick a side, Little Burr. _

He wrapped his head around what he knew to be true.

Washington was probably, deep down, a man trying to do the right thing. Aaron was generous, and could give the old man that much. He tried to remember eighteen months previous, when he’d been on the Commander’s staff--  _ a position you didn’t take seriously, a position you’d rather ignore in favor of getting _ \-- what was the delightful phrase Hamilton had used--  _ getting your cock sucked in a whorehouse.  _

It was immaterial at this point. The dominoes fell where they would, and Washington botched the retreat from Long Island in ‘76, the retreat Aaron had warned his own men about. He’d saved McDougal, he’d saved Washington’s own men-- Hamilton’s brilliant red grin and tight hands at his throat-- in neither of these cases did Washington seem to care. It became clear to Aaron that no matter how hard he tried, he was not going to win the approval of the Commander. His face warmed and a solid block of pride welled up inside of him. If there  _ was  _ going to be a mutiny, Aaron reasoned, it would therefore not matter what side he associated himself with. 

A knock at his door roused him. Aaron sat up and straightened his uniform, “Come in.”

It was Washington’s officer, Laurens, “I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all.”

Laurens stepped inside, wearing a look Aaron knew well: a man trying to make excuses for his superior. 

“Colonel Burr, The Commander in Chief wanted me to properly thank you for your information about the sick men in the camp. He regrets not being able to pay it the attention is deserves however there were some more pressing matters that took his energy--”

Aaron held up a hand, “--I had already forgotten.”

Unconvinced, Laurens went on, clasping his hands, “I know General Washington can be...distant. Really, he does appreciate what you’ve done. Your bravery in the face of mutiny within your own regiment inspires him.”

Aaron let out a sarcastic noise, “Nothing I do inspires that man.” 

“That’s what I came here to explain. He has a different way of showing appreciation. I don’t know how much you heard but he is dealing with something similar amongst his own generals...look, I do not wish to make excuses for him, but I sensed tension, and it unnerved me. And I think...you deserve to be heard,” Laurens unclasped his hands and shoved them in his pockets, letting a small smile form on his mouth, “Also, I cannot stand conflict.”

Aaron mimicked him, “And so you have joined the  _ army?” _

Laurens laughed, looking down, “Fair. In my own defense it was at my father’s insistence-- but I see how this looks.”

Aaron studied the taller man for a moment, another familiar feeling creeping up inside of him, “I am certain your father would be proud of what you’ve accomplished. If your assessment can be relied on, getting into Washington’s good graces is no easy feat.”

“Funny, in his most recent letter he said just the opposite,” Laurens exhaled, almost tired. He looked around the small hut. He lifted a hand, as if brushing aside a darker thought, “Anyway, I apologize for lingering. I said what I had to say.”

“Again, I thank you.” Aaron matched his tone, letting a few seconds of pensive silence fill the air between them. Then, changing the subject, “Is there any more news about what to expect this winter?”

Laurens’ eyebrows raised, “Nothing new to report. Washington wants the men to become familiar with the area. Wants them to stay busy. There is some idle talk of disaffected men turning to the British but if we can keep them fed and occupied I don’t think that will be too big a problem.”

Aaron nodded. To his surprise, Laurens’ opened up, sitting on the edge of the empty cot that had been occupied by Aaron’s sick bunkmate the night before. He spoke with his hands, “The issues are manifold. Frankly, I’m not sure where to begin. First, it was the selection of where to spend the winter. Lancaster? Wilmington? They-- Congress, of course-- wanted us nearby. We’re waiting on word whether or not to stay in the area or decamp again and it wears on him. Which leads to the next issue-- lodgings--” 

Laurens lifted a hand and indicted to the tiny hut. Aaron’s eyes followed it. 

He went on, “-- Are we to settle here? If so, we should get to work helping to create shelter. If not, we should do something to protect the men from the elements. Then of course there are the supply challenges, which you are well aware of. There is talk of upwards of twelve-thousand men--and women, and children-- planning to camp here, with us...one issue begets another and there is no easy way to approach it.”

Aaron watched the other soldier talk on as if he’d been forced to keep quiet for the past few weeks, spilling his thoughts in a rushed, high-colored manner that reminded Aaron of Hamilton, distinctly. 

“I fear with Congress tending to their own issues right now we will feel the sting of their neglect and the sickness you witnessed earlier is only the beginning,” Laurens paused, expression dropping, “I am sorry, Burr. I didn’t mean to ramble--”

Aaron inhaled, shaking his head, “--No, not at all. I am happy to be informed. You seem to have a special insight.”

Laurens turned pink, clearing his throat, “My father is the president of the Continental Congress. I am practically burned with insight.”

“Ah,” Aaron breathed, and he finally understood. 

****

Leaving the Schuyler's was harder than Alexander had anticipated, knowing what he knew about what he’d run into when he reached Valley Forge. 

He regained his strength quickly, a sense of belonging enveloping him as he met Elizabeth’s siblings one by one. The warmth of it turned to pain in his heart as he lay in bed on his last night there.  _ You have never had this, have you? Now you know what you’re missing. _

“So  _ you’re _ the man causing so much trouble in New England, huh?” One of the sisters that Alexander knew to be called Angelica, crossed her arms and eyed him, delicate eyebrow raised. 

_ So you’re the woman Kitty warned me about, _ he wanted to retort; held his tongue with a silent, sharp grin.

He mentally prepared to make the miserable trek southward in the morning, hoping the pleasant memories would carry him through. Gibbs readied their horses before dawn, and the pair were silently off; Alexander took one look back at the mansion behind him, wondering when he’d feel such a way about a single place ever again. 

_ That was it, wasn’t it? _ He stared ahead of him, trying to sort through his tired mind.  _ You could belong there, couldn’t you?  _

“Pensive this morning, are we?” Gibbs asked playfully at his side. He shook his head, blithely, “If it were up to me, you know I’d rather stay, too. Those sisters…”

He clicked his tongue, and Alexander shot him a dark look, “Don’t speak that way about ladies.”

Gibbs rolled his eyes, “Alright, Colonel. You can’t say you weren’t thinking it, too.”

Alexander inhaled the icy December air, letting it fill his lungs painfully, ignoring Gibbs’ insinuation while simultaneously letting it stew inside the dark recesses of his mind. 

_ It was going to be a long winter.  _

They found another dingy inn-- Alexander’s heart sank at the stench of it: filthy sheets and rancid food-- and woke the next morning right back where he’d been before visiting the Schuyler's. He steadied himself in front of the wash basin in the morning, leaning on the vanity with both hands while his stomach lurched. Gibbs stepped up behind him, concerned. 

“If you’re going to pass out, warn me now.”

Alexander closed his eyes, “I will be fine. Come. We have a long journey.”

This thought seemed to make Alexander feel worse and he started to wonder if he’d been  _ cursed  _ by the sisters, the farther he got, the sicker he felt. I _ s it your imagination playing tricks on you, Little Hamilton? You don’t believe in ghost stories, do you? _

One week on the road, a man called Clinton suggested that he and Gibbs stay the night with him, eyeing Alexander with a look that wasn’t patronizing, but did not exactly inspire him with confidence. Alexander did not have the energy to be nervous in the face of the governor of the state of New York, who, despite his best efforts to hide it, was vaguely annoyed at Alexander’s inability to be charming and talkative at his dinner table.

Ten days on the road, and Alexander’s head seared so bad he briefly lost vision.

He stopped his horse, pinching the bridge of his nose, hopping off, “Something is wrong--”

Gibbs mimicked him, jumping down and walking over, “Sir?”

Alexander tried to inhale, reached out to lean against a tree-- faltered, and hit the earth as his mind went blank.

He woke, once, to Gibbs’ looking at him, sitting in a chair in the corner of a room Alexander did not recognize. 

Gibbs stood, and Alexander spoke, weakly, “...Where are we?”

“A Mr. Kennedy has taken us in,” Gibbs answered, “Shall I fetch him? Are you thirsty? He has offered dinner, as well, if you are up to it--”

At the mention of food, Alexander held up a hand, “--No, please.”

That night, he woke again, this time alone, and mustered enough strength to write one single letter to the man who deserved it most.

_ I arrived at this place last night and unfortunately find myself unable to proceed any further. Imagining I had gotten the better of my complaints while confined at Governor Clinton’s and anxious to attend the march of the troops southward, the day before yesterday I crossed the ferry in order to fall in with General Glover’s brigade which was on its march from Poughkeepsie to Fishkill.  _

Alexander swallowed something foul, head pounding in the dim light of the single candle and he forced himself to finish the note to Washington. He scratched through several lines of inane small-talk, after thinking better, and addressed more pressing business. 

_ I received a letter from Col. Shepherd of Massachusetts, who commands a brigade, informing me he would be at Fishkill last night and at King’s Ferry tonight. Wagons, etc, are provided on the other side for his accommodation so that there need be no delay but what is voluntary, and I believe Col. Shepherd is as well disposed as could be wished to hasten his march.  _

He paused, wracking his tired brain for the details Clinton had provided and which Alexander had tried so hard to listen to despite his dizziness. 

_ General Poor’s brigade crossed the ferry the day before yesterday. Two New York regiments, Cortland’s & Livingston’s, are with them. They were unwilling to be separated from the brigade and the brigade from them.  _

Alexander stood and grabbed a cup of water gulping. He walked to the basin and splashed some on his face, preparing to write the next part, delicately. He turned from the vanity to look back at his desk, half-finished note, inkwell and quill, and back to the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair.

He looked at the bed, wishing he could collapse into it and forget the whole blasted thing. 

He sighed, and sat back down, picking up where he left off. 

_ The troops now remaining with General Putnam will amount to about the number you intended, though they are not exactly the same. He has detached a single Connecticut regiment to you. He says the troops with him are not in a condition to march-- being destitute of shoes, stockings and other necessaries; but I believe the true reasons of his being unwilling to pursue the mode pointed out by you were his aversion to the New York troops, and his desire to retain General Parsons with him. _

It was as tactful as he could be, Alexander decided, signing off. 

He fell back into the bed and slipped into sweating, feverish unconsciousness almost immediately. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is essentially a 90% finished WIP. i'll probably never stop editing it/adding to it but i'm posting it now as-is because i'm tired of staring at in in my google drive


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